


Descent

by Piano_Padawan



Series: Enemy Lines [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Character Death, Child Abuse, Damerux, Dark, First Order, Gingerpilot, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, More characters to be added, OCs with relatively minor roles, Pre-Episode VII, Pre-Star Wars: The Force Awakens, Psychological Trauma, Torture, War, With Some Elements from the Canon, non-canon backstory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2019-05-06 00:53:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14630628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piano_Padawan/pseuds/Piano_Padawan
Summary: The collapse of the Empire brought not peace but chaos. The New Republic has given way to power lust and corruption. War wages on with rekindled desperation between the Resistance and the First Order, the spawn of the Empire turned disenchanted military branch of the Republic. A new generation must enter the battle, bound to one side or the other.Amidst the inferno, the teenage corporal Armitage Hux is faced with unstable authority over a doomed mission. Meanwhile, the Resistance fleet’s most promising young pilot, Poe Dameron, finds himself climbing enemy ranks for the sake of a tenuous “greater cause”. In the most fortunate of cases, chance meetings in troubled times strengthen both parties. At other times, one man’s rise to fame will mark the other’s descent into madness.This is the first part of a two-story series of Poe x Hux fanfiction, the second of which will take place after The Last Jedi.





	1. Miscalculations

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Star Wars. I do not own any of the characters, names, themes, etc. related to the movies, books or other media. There is a quote from Aftermath taken somewhat out of context in the first chapter as well as some themes which originated in the Star Wars canon outside the movies.
> 
> A/N: Up until this point, I've been writing mostly comedic content for Star Wars fanfiction. I would therefore, like to put a warning that this is NOT a comedic fan fic. The plot is dark and involves a number of sensitive themes, especially relating to Hux's backstory. Thematic elements related to implied sexual abuse are kept at the T-rating level. However, this fic has been rated M to be safe for violence.
> 
> This story is written in an alternate universe in which there is no peace after the Galactic Concordance. Overall, the material I use here is from the Star Wars films. Consequently, this story will diverge largely from the backstories in the books and other sources outside the movies.
> 
> This is the first part of a two-story series of Poe x Hux fanfiction, the second of which will take place after The Last Jedi.

_11 ABY, Mineral Fields of Eadu_

The boy’s hands tremble as his line of vision lurches forward. For a moment, he thinks the transport will surely give way, that the whole team will go crashing down, buried in a heap of scalding metal. But the moment passes, and he’s allowed another hurried breath, another heartbeat.

His console has fallen to the floor again. He feels the glare of the Commander heavy upon him as he bends over to pick up the device, mutters a quick apology and retreats back to the corner of the cockpit. The walls quake again. The commander barks out something about defending the western reaches, an order to which the rest of the crew can only respond with a few worried murmurs and snide remarks. It’s only a question of how it’ll end, how many more blows the transport will take before the legs give way.

No one dares to speak of evacuation. Better to die now than be blown to bits fleeing the battlefield or executed for desertion. This wordless resolution predated all understanding of the war and whatever trivial conclusions one drew from it.

Another blast makes the transport reel to the left before the pilot can regain balance. The boy fixes his eyes on his console, refusing to look up from the screen of expanding red. He knows his task – report back on the remaining transports and support ships, those in distress and those destroyed, whenever prompted by the Commander. It’s a simple task and one that’s become all but redundant. The commander stopped caring about the losses hours ago.

But the boy remains attentive, hoping to feel useful, hoping that surely, _surely_ he can offer something before…

“Then, it’s hopeless!”

The entire team turns to the source of the outburst –a pallid youth with his index finger pointed accusingly at the Commander.

“Get back to your post, Ensign,” the Commander’s tone is stern as ever, but the Ensign is undeterred.

“We know it’s a lost cause without the shields,” the ensign persists. “More importantly, the Resistance knows. Why else would they target the generator?”

“The main generator went up in flames,” says the Commander. “There’s no use discussing it further. What we need _now_ is reinforcements on the western reaches and your order is to shut your trap and get us there. Understood?”

“We aren’t going to make it there, Commander.” The transport dips forward again as if to prove the Ensign’s point. “We won’t make it much longer, but as far as the Resistance is concerned, none of that matters.”

“I don’t give a damn what matters to the Resistance scum! What matters is our task!”

“Our task is to counter the Resistance attack. They’re not after the western reaches. They’re after the weapons lab. Without the shields, the lab is an easy target.”

The boy watches the confrontation, wondering what could have kindled such impertinence. His father had been sure to instill in him a loathing for impudence (thinking about it made him wince), but that wasn’t the only lesson he’d learned. Above all, there was no excuse for accepting defeat when there was still fighting left to be done.

A heavy breath of silence passes before the transport pilot says in a quavering voice:

“If you would pardon my interruption, sir. There is a secondary shield generator that is not too far from our current position. I suspect it has already taken damage but may be salvageable with some mechanical work.”

The Commander frowns, giving the pilot a brief, impassive glance before asking:

“How far?”

“Roughly a mile,” the pilot replies. “In the Eastern Outpost. The work would have to be done manually, but the outpost’s transmission systems are down. We have no way of making contact with the technical squadron stationed there, even if they’ve managed to survive, but it is possible to get there on foot from our current coordinates.” He hesitates. “Though it would be… hazardous.”

Hazardous is an understatement. Such a task would be a suicide mission. The chances of success are too high to risk the lives of the expert crew members. Yet, the stakes are too high to discard the proposition. The boy knows this all too well. He shows no surprise when the Commander turns to him.

“Boy!” the Commander barks. “Come here. I have a job for you!”

-x-X-x-

“Take this,” the Ensign says, handing the boy a transmitter. “We’ll use it to communicate as you make your way to the outpost. Once you’re inside, the generator will be on the second floor. You’ve worked with similar generators in the past from my understanding. This should be much the same. Get there, and we’ll give you further instructions on activating the emergency shields. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“There’s a tracker built in,” the Ensign explains, indicating the transmitter. “So, we’ll be able to track your coordinates once you’ve activated the shields and give you directions back to the transport. Are we clear?”

The boy wants to scoff at the idea of a return trip. The odds of him reaching to the outpost alive, much less return to the transport in one piece, are miniscule. It’s a hopeless task and he is but a token, cast away to settle the Commander’s doubts that they’ve exhausted all options.

Pushing these thoughts aside, he responds with another sterile, “Yes, sir.”

The Ensign nods. The transport comes to a halt, and the exit ramp unfolds. A moment later, the boy finds himself standing on the slate ground, watching the transport’s towering legs stalk past him, a metallic skeleton returning to the grave.

He can see the battle unfolding above, the shadows of the TIE Fighters engaging the enemy fleet. A mile away, a squad of troopers are manning the ground artillery. A minute later, an enemy ship swoops down, blowing another cannon and its crew to pieces. The Eastern Outpost is a mile away, or so the transport pilot claimed. The boy can see its figure, peaking out on the horizon what feels like another _fifty_ miles away.

He starts towards it.

A crash echoes across the field and out of the corner of his eye, the boy glimpses the crumpled remains of an AT-AT. Presumably it was shot down by one of the enemy ships.

He wonders about the precision of an X-Wing. He’s seen TIE Fighter models with enough precision to shoot down a single ground trooper. An eleven-year-old boy, armed with nothing but a blaster, making his way across the battlefield alone must look suspicious. Maybe that’ll be enough for the enemy fighters to target him. He orders himself not to speculate.

Soon after, he encounters another group of Stormtroopers manning an anti-aircraft cannon. A few of them turn to stare at him, before quickly returning to their work. The boy fears at first that they’ll mistake him for a deserter, but the worry soon subsides. Any deserter who would attempt to escape by running into a live warzone would be too foolish to pose a threat.

A shadow passes over him. He dives under an overturned transport seconds before the explosion, which leaves his ears ringing.

A cloud of debris rises a few feet away from where he’s crouched under the rubble. A stinging pain crawls up his leg, and he looks down to see a few streaks of blood running down his torn uniform. He tries to reorient himself, silently rehearsing his task.

_Reach the Eastern Outpost._

_Locate the backup generator on the second floor._

_Send a transmission back to the crew on the transport…_

The transmitter. He must have lost it during the explosion.

He leaves the cover of the fallen transport. After a panicked search, he glimpses a red light blinking a few paces away. He seizes the transmitter from the ground and barely has time to check whether it’s broken before he hears the whirring of a starfighter engine.

He expects another bomb. He expects this to be the one that kills him, but by some strange fate, the enemy ship passes by. Next time, he suspects he won’t be so fortunate. He’s already running out of luck. The lab, his team in the transport, the First Order is already running out of time.

He sets his gaze on the outpost and makes a mad dash towards it. He doesn’t dare to believe he’ll make it, but while he’s still alive he’s damn well going to try.

There’s more wreckage up ahead. Smoke billows from the heap of metal which appears to be the remains of a starfighter. It’s hard to tell what kind, whether it’s an enemy ship or one of the TIE Fighters, and there isn’t time to check. The unmistakable stench of burning flesh rises from the crash site.

The boy is all too familiar with the smell. He remembers long hours spent salvaging whatever was left of the fallen the morning after the battle. It was a task frequently assigned to the juvenile recruits. His father had always believed in teaching his cadets the barbarism of the enemy early on.

The boy had learned well. He thought now of the cadavers. Some of them lay scattered across the battlefield, unidentifiable limbs to fuel the crematorium’s flames. Others were left much as they’d been in life, glossy eyes half-opened, the head leering to the side as if they hadn’t had time to realize their death before it came. Those were the worst ones…

Another shadow. This time, the enemy starfighter is ablaze. It swoops above him, reeling sideways. After another heartbeat aloft, the ship plummets to the ground. Another wreckage, more smoke, more burning…

The outpost is closer now. _Almost there._ Slowly, the building comes into clearer focus. The vague outline of the entrance solidifies. Part of him still refuses to believe he can make it.

Just a little further. He tightens his grip on the transmitter and pushes himself to keep running.

The bomb falls between the boy and the outpost. There isn’t even time for him to lift his head to see the enemy ship race overhead before the blast flings him backwards.

The world goes black upon impact.

 

His eyes snap open. His ears ring worse than ever. His head feels as if it’ll burst pressing against his skull.

An excruciating jolt of pain shoots up his left arm. He turns his head towards the source.  The limb has snapped at a crooked angle above the elbow. Blood blooms from the crux of the injury, where the pale form of shattered bone juts from the skin.

At first, he can do nothing but stare, morbidly entranced by the fracture. Then, the tears blur his vision. He tells himself they’re only physical in nature, a reflex beyond his control, but that can only hold off the shame for so long.

The outpost, the generator lies twenty paces away. He’s so close.

He’d been reminded of his weakness more times than he can count. He recalls listening from behind closed doors as the High Command questioned his father.

_I understand you have a son. Not of your wife – an illegitimate child? Will he be the best the Empire has to offer?_

Even then, he had recognized his father’s doubts. Now, it seems the doubts were justified. Unless…

The boy leverages himself with his good arm into a sitting position. He stays like that for a few more breaths, shaking. A coughing fit racks his skinny frame. The transmitter is lying a foot away. The red light indicates that miraculously, the device is still working. The boy inches towards it, nearly falling down again as he grasps it with his right hand.

By the unknown grace that’s kept him alive thus far, he’s able to stand.

His arm shrieks as he limps towards the outpost. He’s moving slowly. Too slowly. But he’s still moving, still fighting…

He reaches the entrance to the outpost. The door is half-open, presumably jammed. The boy slips through and collapses on the floor. His broken arm jerks to the side and he bites back a cry. The tears slip down his face again. He brushes them away with a furious hand.

The building has not gone unscathed from the attack. The interior is dark, the few remaining lights flickering, dangling precariously from the ceiling. There’s no sign of the technician or security team.

Outside, the battle rages on. The ground shakes as another bomb lands. All it’ll take is for the next one to land on the outpost, and everything will be for nothing.

The boy can’t afford to think of that now. The elevator is straight ahead, its keypad still alight. He stumbles towards it, praying that it’ll work. After a few clicks on the keypad, the door opens and the boy limps inside.

The elevators opens on the second floor, revealing a long hallway. At the end is a long console with an array of glaring alarm lights. A trail of sickly white smoke rises from the corner. Collapsed over the console lies the body of a technician, her hand draped over a lever protruding from the floor. The boy feels his stomach sink.

He steps over to the console, coughing from the smoke. He fumbles for the power switch, prays that whatever damage the machine has taken isn’t irrevocable. To his relief, the lights of the main console flicker on.

“AT-AT Squadron 2406, come in,” he chokes out the words into the transmitter.

No reply.

“AT-AT Squadron 2406, come in,” he repeats.

He hears static on the other end of the line followed by muffled discourse. Then, at last, he hears the pilot’s voice come through:

“Go ahead.”

“I have located the generator,” the boy says. His arm throbs with every step. He thinks for a moment to mention his injury but dismisses the idea.

A shudder runs through the outpost. The boy glances upwards, half-expecting the roof to cave in.

“There is a K9 Reactive Switch near the base of the console,” the pilot says. “Do you see it?”

Leaning one hand on the console for support, the boy searches for the reactive switch, praying that he’ll remember his previous work on the generators at the academy. Another rush of pain ripples from his wound. It takes all his willpower to keep from screaming.

The corpse’s hand is resting on the reactive switch. The sight of it is enough to make his blood freeze. Before he can deliberate the spectacle further, the boy reaches out and moves the hand aside. The corpse’s arm falls back and the rest of the body rolls onto the floor with a hollow _thud_.

_Don’t look at it,_ a voice inside him snaps. _Focus. You’re burning time._

“Affirmative,” the boy speaks into the transmitter. “I see it.”

“Power it on,” the pilot directs him. “This will begin the reset sequence which will deauthorize the main generator and begin activation of the shields from the secondary generator. Once the shields are up…”

The pilot’s voice trails off. Someone is shouting in the background. The dreadful creaking sound of two hundred tons of steel plummeting to the ground blurs into static, and the boy is left alone.

He’s learned to suppress grief before. He’s watched the best officers usurp grief with cold acceptance. Efficiency, some would call it.

_You’re burning time_ , the voice berates him. _Wasteful. Wasteful…_

He turns back to the reactive switch. It looks more like a misshapen bar than a switch and only twitches when he presses it.

_Wasteful and weak._

The boy tries again, pushing harder this time. The switch shifts almost imperceptibly.

_Weak. Always weak. I see my faith was misplaced._

His right arm trembles as he forces the toggle again, pushing all his weight downward. The ground rumbles again and he knows time is running thin. Drops of blood fall onto the console, mingling with his sweat. His head is throbbing, pleading for him to rest. He clenches the switch again and channels the last of his strength into the motion.

The switch clicks as it moves down to the active position. The console blinks and the monitor buzzes to life. A message appears on the screen: _Beginning generator reset sequence. Transferring shield source to secondary generator._

Armitage Hux reads the notices of his achievement and manages a thin smile. Then, agony obscures his vision and he crumples to the floor.

 

_Medical Bay of the Star Destroyer, The Herald_

Commandant Brendol Hux strides into the medical bay. One hand rests on the grip of his blaster. The other is clenched into a fist.

The reports are still not entirely clear, but he’s heard enough to draw his own bitter conclusions.

_At 11:26 on Eadu, AT-AT Squadron 2406 was hit by a T-85 Resistance X-Wing starfighter. The transport subsequently collapsed._

_At 21:40, following the battle, AT-AT 2406 was located. The coordinates of the wreckage were recorded along with a body count of 21, accounting for the entire crew with the exception of the crew’s junior technician, Armitage Hux._

_At 1:00 the following day, Search and Rescue Squad R86 located Armitage Hux on the second floor of the Eastern Outpost. On-site medics reported multiple tertiary blast injuries, including an open fracture in the boy’s left arm. He was transferred to the emergency medical bay aboard the Star Destroyer “The Herald” for treatment._

From what he’s heard, the boy’s condition is still precarious. Brendol doesn’t have time to dwell on uncertainties. What he _does_ know for certain is that there are limited reasons why a cadet should be found nearly a mile away from his crew.

He’s dealt with deserters before. The punishment for desertion is clear in the First Order legal code. Still, Brendol has never been one to believe in drawn-out court procedures culminating months later in a death sentence. He values efficiency too dearly.

“Commandant Hux,” an older woman in a white uniform greets him at the door. “We’ve been expecting you, sir. I’ve been charged with overseeing your son’s treatment.”

“Where is he?” Brendol demands.

“Right this way,” the doctor replies.

She leads him into a long room lined with rows of cots. A medical droid zips past them carrying a basin, the contents of which lets off a foul odor. Several of the cots are obscured by curtains, through which the silhouettes of the doctors are vaguely discernable.

“He has an open fracture in his left arm, slightly above the elbow,” says the doctor. “We suspect it’s from a blast injury, judging from the shrapnel cuts. The cuts have been sanitized and bound with a bacta patch. As for the arm, we’ve completed our initial evaluation and bound the wound with antibiotic bacta beads. Since Armitage is not yet of consenting age, we’ll need your authorization for further surgery.”

Brendol says nothing in reply. He’s never been fond of too much chatter. He makes a mental note to comment on unprofessional behavior to the medical bay’s supervisor.

“Regarding his injuries,” the doctor continues, undeterred by the Commandant’s glower. “The footage is even more unbelievable. It’s a miracle alone that he survived the journey from the transport to the outpost, much less do what he did. I could hardly believe it until I saw the footage my…”

“What footage?” the Commandant interjects.

“Oh.” The doctor furrows her brow. “My apologies, sir. I thought you had heard. They recovered footage from the security tapes in the outpost. Apparently, some of the cameras were undamaged during the attack.”

“No,” Brendol says through gritted teeth. “I was not notified.”

As if the rumors alone wouldn’t be bad enough, there was now footage of the boy’s escape. At least, he can deal with the boy now before the situation escalates further. He tightens his grip on his blaster.

“There’s been talk around the _Herald_ about your son,” the doctorcontinues. “He’s younger than the typical age for any position of authority, but some of the officers here have taken interest in him. They saw the footage of him resetting the system to regenerate the shields and were rightfully impressed.”

“He did _what_?”

The Commandant stops dead in his tracks. The doctor stares at him worriedly.

“Is everything alright, sir?” she asks.

“I was not aware that my son was responsible for reactivating the shields,” Brendol says at length.

“Oh, my apologies again, sir,” the doctor replies hurriedly. “I… I had thought you’d seen the footage.”

“I will be sure to speak with the transmission team on the frequency of their reports,” is all Brendol can think to say. He lets his hand fall from his blaster.

They continue ahead. The doctor pauses next to one of the cots and draws back the curtain. Armitage is lying on the bed, his breathing shallow but steady. He appears to be unconscious. His head is turned to the side, revealing the ghost of a bruise which the doctors wrote off as “ _light tertiary blast trauma_ ”.

Brendol gives a quick glance at the fracture and frowns at the grotesque angle the boy’s arm forms against the binding. Looking at the skinny child before him, Brendol still has his doubts about the footage. Yet, he can’t help but wonder if, for the past eleven years, he’s miscalculated the boy’s potential.

There are few things Brendol Hux despises more than miscalculations.

“Take care of him.” The indifference in the commandant’s voice strikes discord with the words. “Take care of him. I’ll be back.”

He turns to leave, but the doctor raises a hand to stop him.

“Excuse me, sir,” she says. “We need your authorization for the surgery. If you would like a detailed overview of the procedure, I would be happy to…”

“Have the required forms sent to my office,” Brendol says. “I will sign them by tonight.”

With that, the Commandant turns the corner and stalks off towards the exit. Hearing his father’s retreating footsteps, Armitage stirs. The doctor nearly calls the Commandant back before she thinks better of it.

The boy rolls his head to the other side and winces as his broken arm shifts. He’s wide awake. He’s been awake the entire time, and they both know it.

The doctor considers asking how he’s feeling, but figures the question is rhetorical. Besides, Armitage has not proven particularly fond of conversation thus far in his stay, not that anyone can blame him.

“Your father was just here,” the doctor remarks.

The boy gives no reply. The doctor purses her lips and decides not to pursue the subject further.

“It’s getting late,” she says. “We’d like you to try to get some sleep. I can give you one more dose of painkillers for the night. Would you prefer I give it to you now?”

Armitage nods. After administering the injection, the doctor leaves. The lights go out shortly afterwards.

The painkillers’ effects are swift. Soon, the agonizing pulses around the fracture are numbed to a dull ache. Armitage exhales heavily and gazes at the ceiling. The spectral hands of the battlefield reach back at him, claiming his thoughts with the cacophony of falling bombs and screeching engines.

He lays like that, haunted in silence for the rest of the night.


	2. Consequences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the people who left kudos and nice comments! I really appreciate all the feedback and can honestly say it helps me to develop the characters and plot.
> 
> A few notes on this chapter: firstly, this should be the last of the childhood chapters, with the exception of future flashbacks. Secondly (and this goes for the whole fic), since this is an AU there are some things in here that are canon and other elements that are canon divergent.

“Don’t do that!”

Poe gives Nix a dismissive glance over his shoulder and continues to fiddle with his device, a probe, which he has attached to the door, connected by a long wire to an earpiece. The vendor at the marketplace sold him the old equipment for practically nothing, saying it was more of a child’s toy now than anything. Still, the technology works well enough to give him the thrill of pseudo-professional activities.

He can hear his father’s voice rising on the other side:

_“I don’t give a damn how young they start them! Since when did we follow the First Order’s standards?”_

“You shouldn’t be doing that,” Nix protests, tugging at Poe’s arm. “They’re going to hear you.”

“Yeah, they _will_ hear us if you keep whining,” Poe says, swatting away Nix’s hand.

Nix backs off to the corner and sulks, arms crossed. After adjusting the volume on the earpiece, Poe can hear another voice in the other room:

“ _It’s no longer a matter of whether we agree with them or not_ ,” says the unidentified visitor. “ _We all knew this was inevitable. Now, we need to choose, and our ability to choose is a privilege in and of itself, Kes…_ ”

“ _A privilege_ ,” Poe’s father scoffs.

“ _Yes_ ,” the visitor replies. “ _You’re fortunate that your past and present involvement in the Rebellion has been so well hidden from the First Order, or perhaps the secret has already been uncovered and they’ve chosen to overlook your case for whatever reason. I advise you don’t give them reason for an investigation._ ”

“ _Let them try_ ,” says Kes. “ _We’ll be gone long before they get here._ ”

The visitor pauses. A burst of static runs through Poe’s earpiece. The boy fiddles with a knob on the probe before fixing it back onto the door.

“ _But the barricade was not my only concern_ ,” the visitor says, his voice fraught with both urgency and resignation. “ _They have a quota for the draft. You know what they do what it isn’t met._ ”

“ _I know, I know_ ,” Kes’s reply is weary, as if he knows he’s fighting a losing battle. “ _But…_ ” He exhales heavily and gathers his resolve. “ _But I can’t… I won’t let them have my son. So long as there’s any chance that we can get out of here before they come, that’s what we’ll do._ ”

“ _They’re already in this System. They’ll be monitoring outgoing ships. Please, Kes. I know the First Order. I can protect him. If he registers along with the rest, I can see to it that he’s safe, or as safe as he can be… if you leave… if they take him from you, I cannot assure…_ ”

“ _No one is going to take him from me!_ ”

Nix approaches Poe again.

“What are they talking about?” he whispers, his curiosity getting the better of him. “They’re screaming. Fighting about something…”

“Shh!” Poe hisses. “I know! I’m trying to listen!”

No one ever told him that things were going wrong. No one needed to tell him. He was younger then, yes, but even a child his age could read the signs.

It started with a murmur of disquiet amongst the Resistance fighters. This was of little account. The adults were always bickering amongst themselves about one thing or another. His father told him that war made people worry continually. In the end, peace would make the worries subside.

Then, the murmur spread outside the Resistance. Soon, the whole community joined in, those who chose to remain neutral, those suspected of being First Order sympathizers. The voices were mixed. Some bore a thin layer of excitement. Others spoke of portents and misfortune.

It was then that the murmur began to form a chorus, forever repeating the refrain of “the youth draft”.

Before long, the transmissions started coming in torrents. Kes Dameron began locking the door while he tried to make sense of them. It wasn’t the kind of thing for children his son’s age to listen too. Poe wasn’t sure then whether it was due to complexity or severity, though he suspected the latter.

“ _I won’t force you,_ ” the visitor sighs. “ _I understand this is difficult. I’m truly sorry it has come to this. Should you choose to stay, you know how to reach me._ ”

Poe hears the screech of furniture grinding against the tiles followed by footsteps.

“ _Thank you again for your hospitality as always, Kes,_ ” says the visitor.

“ _Of course,_ ” Kes replies. “ _I wish you safe travels, Senator._ ”

The front door closes. Poe hears his father’s approaching footsteps a few seconds too late. He’s halfway into stuffing the probe into his pocket before the door he’s leaning on slides open. He falls backwards and stares nervously at his father.

Nix has already scuttled up the stairs. Poe scowls at the other boy’s retreating figure. It’s been a little under a year since Nix moved into the Dameron household and despite the overall amicable nature of their interactions, Poe can’t help but be a little disgruntled by the newcomer.

“What do you think you’re doing?” his father questions. “And where did you get that from?”

“Marketplace,” Poe says, reluctantly placing his latest spy gear into his father’s outstretched hand.

He gets up from the ground and dusts himself off, watching his father examine the probe.

“The junk they sell there,” Kes mutters. “But I figure it must have worked well enough for you.”

“Yeah,” Poe says, nodding. He considers asking to have the device back but figures that now isn’t the best time.

Kes shakes his head and runs a worried hand through his hair.

“I figure you heard most of that then,” he says.

Poe nods and receives a tight smile from his father. He had expected his father to be angry or at least exasperated. After all, this isn’t Poe’s first eavesdropping offense, and both father and son know it probably won’t be the last. But today, Kes is too drained, too preoccupied with his unnamed worries for a lecture.

Poe isn’t prepared for this. Questions race through his mind faster than he can articulate them. Finally, he settles on one.

“Are we leaving?” he asks.

Kes doesn’t answer at first. He doesn’t look his son in the eye, staring out the window instead as one wary of an intruder.

“I don’t know,” he finally says. He turns back to his son and ushers him towards the staircase. “But that isn’t for you to worry about now. Come. It’s late. You should have been in bed an hour ago.”

“I can’t sleep,” Poe whines. “And I couldn’t earlier because I heard you talking to someone. Who were you talking to?”

“Senator Kruvin,” his father replies. “Hosnian official. He wanted to… discuss a few things with me.”

“He said he knows the First Order.”

“Yes. He’s worked with them. It’s part of his position, but don’t worry. He’s on our side. He’s helped the Resistance many times before. Some of our best allies have to keep up a front, but if that’s how we’re going to win, so be it.”

“We’re going to win,” Poe echoes.

“Yes,” his father says reflexively.

They’ve reached the top of the steps. Kes gives his son a gentle nudge towards his bedroom. To Poe’s dismay, his father holds onto probe and earpiece, showing no sign of giving the toy back anytime soon.

“Now, I need you to listen to me,” says Kes with a new sternness in his voice. “I need you to promise me that next time I ask you to stay out of something, you will. No more of this.” He indicates the probe. “Or any other shenanigans. Understood?”

“Yeah,” Poe sulks.

“No, not like that,” Kes says. “I need you to promise that you’ll listen to me, that this won’t happen again. This is not a game.”

Taken aback by the foreign urgency, Poe concedes.

“Yes,” he says. “I promise.”

“Good,” his father says. He forces another smile. “Now, to bed. You need your sleep.”

Poe sets off towards his bedroom but pauses at the door.

“Dad,” he says. “We’re winning, right?”

“We’re…” Kes’s voice trails off. “Yes. We’re winning in the long run.”

Before Poe can get in another word, his father adds, “Go. Get some sleep. It’s late enough. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

Later that evening, Poe is awoken by another set of voices downstairs. In the morning, his father looks fatigued and says nothing of the night’s events. For once in his life, Poe decides not to ask.

 

_Engineering Section of The Herald_

Armitage sprints down the corridor, ignoring the stares of the passing officers. His right hand is clasped around his left arm, trying to hold it still as he runs. The doctor said it would heal fine with his daily routine, but Armitage is uncertain. They’ve already had complications with the binding and a separate hassle with the painkillers.

After the first few sleepless nights following his initial stay at the medical bay, his father had reluctantly brought him back to discuss pain medications. The original prescription was then revised in a strew of hospital visits, fueled by the Commandant’s complaints that the latest drugs were making his son “slow and inattentive”.

The latest cocktail of sedatives provided a weak numbing effect. The other effects of the medication were stronger than any of its predecessors, strong enough to knock Armitage out for a full hour past his alarm.

He turns a corner and hurries into the data center where the other cadets are already assembled at their stations. The Commandant is nowhere to be seen. Armitage wonders for a moment whether he’s somehow managed to get there before the rollcall but knows his father would never settle for such disorganization. The Commandant will be back in time to deal with the stragglers, and when he does… Armitage tells himself not to think about it.

He weaves around the stations of glowing data pads and finds his team, a group of his fellow cadets ranging from ages twelve to fourteen. There were twenty-five of them, but the Battle of Eadu has cut their numbers to twelve. Still, the Commandant has made it clear that the he expects the same level of productivity for each team.

One of the cadets, a dark-haired boy with a rounded visage, moves aside and nods towards the space next to him. Armitage hastily takes his place.

“Mitaka,” he whispers to the other boy. “Have they called roll?”

“Yes,” Mitaka replies. “One of the lieutenants came by to do it an hour ago. Your father… the Commandant hasn’t been here yet. I don’t know where he is.”

Armitage gives a curt nod of understanding and turns to the data pad in front of him.

“We’re counting the registrants again?” he asks.

“Same as yesterday,” says Mitaka. He gets a glimpse of Armitage’s bandaged wound before the latter shifts in his seat so that the table blocks the injury. “How’s your arm?”

Armitage stiffens and answers with a short, “Fine.” He picks up the data pad and flips through the screens of files. “Which ones haven’t we done?”

“Everything in the fifth column onwards. We’re behind schedule after yesterday but…”

“I’ll start at the fifth column then.”

With that, Armitage retreats to his work. The other children know better than to attempt conversing with him further. He has never been one for idle talk. Some attribute this to the spoiled aloofness that came with his father’s rank. Other theories are closer to the truth.

The gossip used to sting. Now, Armitage makes a point not to dwell on any of it. He knows it’s mostly puerile chatter. It _should_ be easy to ignore.

He examines the list of files on the screen and uses his stylus to open the first one. The monitor illuminates with the registrant’s name, photo ID and other information that blurs together into a sterile profile. There isn’t time for detailed inspection. For all practical purposes, the task at hand is a simple one: a few clicks on the console for the registrant’s profile to be validated, and the new cadet is blended into the final count.

_A simple, mechanical task_ , Armitage tells himself. _Just don’t be careless, don’t be stupid…_

He rubs the drowsiness from his eyes and squints at the data pad. In the end, it’s a losing battle. His vision blurs as another wave of lightheadedness strikes him. No doubt, his father will drag him back to the medical bay and demand a new prescription. The doctor’s usual spiel on patience with side effects rings in his ears.

Armitage blinks and stares at his assignment. At least, he’s made progress. He’s a quarter of the way down the seventh column, though he scarcely remembers reviewing the last two.

His stomach churns, and his hunger hits him as an afterthought. Unsurprising saying that he did skip breakfast in his mad dash to the data center. At the moment, however, food is secondary to rest, which is in turn secondary to other matters. He feels his mind sinking back into a fog…

The sound of the door zipping open hauls him out of his grogginess. He looks up just in time to realize that the other cadets are standing to salute their superior officer. He does so as well.

Commandant Hux is followed by several Stormtroopers and two officers. Such an entourage can only mean either punishment, a demonstration, or a mixture of both.

After taking his place at the front of the room, the Commandant signals for the cadets to be seated with an abrupt wave of his hand. Armitage watches his father survey the room, and for a terrible moment, he fears that he will be called forward. Surely, Brendol has reviewed the rollcall and noticed that his son’s late arrival was not recorded. The Commandant is always quick to make an example of those lacking discipline.

But the Commandant’s eyes pass over Armitage’s station with no comment. The boy allows himself a short sigh of relief, but no more than that. He knows his father too well to deny the inevitable. He only hopes that Brendol will wait until they have returned to his quarters.

Brendol utters a few brusque words to the officers who move to operate the projector. Shortly afterwards, an image appears behind Brendol, spanning the wall. The display shows an aerial view of a verdant landscape, dotted with the pale forms of buildings peeking through the jungle.

The room has gone silent. The Commandant has a way of holding everyone’s attention with an iron grip. Perhaps it’s in the way he carries himself, as if every movement follows an austere regiment, or the unwavering control in his voice. Everything amounts to unquestionable authority. Armitage can’t help but respect it.

“We have received confirmation of our registrant totals for the planet of Laseel,” Brendol announces. The name of the planet seems to leave a bitter taste in his throat. “Remember that this information is the product of your own work and that of your fellow cadets. It is this sense of duty and dedication that we seek to cultivate in the First Order. Indeed, it is the only just option, to offer your greatest effort in return for the justice and stability the First Order gives all who show their loyalty. Through your commitment, you have demonstrated such loyalty.”

The cadets exchange baffled looks upon hearing this unexpected praise.

“Unfortunately,” Brendol continues, “such commitment is often lacking in others. Before you, you see the city of Ketall, one of the main space ports on Laseel. The First Order claimed control of the city no more than one month ago, ousting the criminal syndicates and their puppet government which plagued the people and instilling a new regime of order. Within this month, the sacrifice of our forces who fought to restore the city has been forsaken.”

The Commandant takes a moment to inspect his audience’s reaction before going on.

“Ketall has a population of around 700,000, who, as I have told you, were recently liberated by our elite forces. Among those 700,000, 21% have reached enlistment age. Now, given a highly conservative estimate that 15% of these youths should qualify for some form of service, can any of you tell me what our registrant quota would be?”

_105,000._ Armitage decides to keep the answer to himself. He doesn’t trust himself to get the correct number in his malaise and can’t afford a wrong answer now on top of everything.

Eventually, one of the braver recruits answers, “105,000 is our quota, sir.”

Brendol gives a short nod, his usual gesture of approval.

“Yes,” he says. “105,000 new recruits, the crew size of a Star Destroyer. Imagine the speed 105,000 recruits would lend to our greater goal, how many more crime-ridden cities not unlike Ketall could be redeemed. Yet, do you know what our registrant totals reveal?”

This time, no one volunteers a response. Armitage looks up at the footage of Ketall glowing behind the podium. He knows what is going to happen, and the thought envelopes him, not with fear or dread, but with understanding of the most deadening kind. It’s a feeling he learned years ago, during the evacuation of Arkanis, but that time is distant. Now, he listens to his father’s speech and awaits the inevitable.

“Fewer than 50,000 registrants,” Brendol spits out the figure. “Not even half of our quota. Today, as we offer our service and loyalty, over 55,000 ingrates have fled their duty with the aid of none other than the vile Resistance, the anarchistic enemy who seeks to counter the restoration of order. Ketall has fallen for the Resistance’s deceit and turned against its liberators. Such traitorous territories do not belong in our regime. They have forsaken their place. To avoid the draft is nothing short of treason. Now, I ask all of you, what is the penalty for treason?”

The answer has been ingrained in the crowd for years.

“Death!” the word slips from Armitage’s lips to join the rest of the chorus.

The Commandant turns to the pair of officers.

“There we have it,” Brendol says, “From the mouths of children. See to it.”

The officers give an affirmative salute and depart with the troopers. Soon after, Armitage hears voices in the hall, strains of transmissions to another ship.

“What you see before you is a live view of Ketall as seen from the Star Destroyer, the _Absolution_ ,” says the Commandant. “In its hangars, the _Absolution_ harbors enough starfighters to swiftly eliminate cities threefold the size of this one. As such, we can expect a brief demonstration.”

Armitage watches with the rest of the cadets as the dark forms of the starfighters make their descent. They seem to disappear into the landscape as they swoop down, as if they were nothing but insignificant passersby.

The coverage is muted, replacing the howl of the engines with an eerie serenity, but Armitage can still hear everything. He’s seen the fighters from the ground, knows what it’s like to run for cover a second too late. His arm throbs with renewed phantom pains. Suddenly, he feels nauseous, cold, as if he’s gripped by a fever. He grimaces and locks his gaze on the display, cursing this latest frailty.

The first bomb lands with a scorched, scarlet bloom, followed by another. Then, the storm begins. The jungle is blotted by smoke and debris rising up like a geyser. The city of Ketall is reduced to ashen rubble in a matter of minutes, obscured by the darkening cloud.

The screen flickers and the scene of the destruction is replaced by the bright red emblem of the First Order. The Commandant turns back to his cadets and gives his closing remarks:

“Learn from this that the First Order will not tolerate cowardice and treason. It is on these principles that we will rebuild our galaxy.”

A bell sounds over the intercom, signaling the beginning of the lunchbreak. After checking his watch to ensure that it is the proper time, Brendol barks at his cadets:

“You are dismissed. You may queue for your meal ticket at the fourth-floor western gate. Report back to this room at 12:20 sharp for the next session.”

The room echoes with chairs screeching against the floor and shuffling boots. The cacophony makes Armitage’s head rattle as he staggers to his feet. He half considers skipping lunch for a twenty-minute rest, but hunger won’t help his fatigue, and despite the oppressive painkillers, he has enough of an appetite to feel the hunger pangs.

“Are you feeling alright?”

Isn’t it obvious? Armitage still manages to give Mitaka a look of indignance.

“I’m fine,” he growls.

“You look ill,” says Mitaka.

“Doesn’t change much,” Armitage replies, shrugging. His mouth curls into a faint smile, revealing the split of dried blood on his bottom lip, as he adds, “I’ve had worse.”

Mitaka doesn’t argue with that. The two continue to the gate in silence, following the crowd. When they reach the end of the line, one of the other cadets, a girl who can’t be older than twelve, beckons to Armitage.

“He’s been calling for you,” she hisses.

“Who?” Armitage asks, already dreading the answer.

“The Commandant,” the cadet says, giving the line ahead an anxious glance. “He wants you to go to the front.”

Armitage comes close to letting his fear show before he sees the way Mitaka and the other cadet are staring at him with unmistakable pity. In a way, it’s worse than the jeering the younger Hux receives from his other peers.

He puts on an impassive face as he slowly makes his way to the front of the line, careful to keep his head bowed lest he appear insouciant. His father is waiting for him there, standing besides one of his collection of subordinate officers, another weary-eyed middle-aged man tasked with distributing the meal tickets.

Brendol gestures for the officer to pause and nods for his son to step ahead of the line. He extends a hand towards the boy, who cringes instinctually, but the anticipated blow doesn’t come. Instead, the Commandant straightens the collar of his son’s uniform. It’s an abrupt motion, much the way one would brush aside a lone cluster of dust from an otherwise pristine piece of furniture. Armitage gets a brief glimpse of the baton at his father’s side. A thin layer of sweat coats his hands.

“So good of you to join us today, Armitage,” Brendol’s voice is flat, “In spite of your… condition. We can’t go about using these things as an excuse, now can we?”

“No, sir,” Armitage says, trying to tear his eyes from the baton.

Before the boy can flinch away, Brendol clenches the boy’s chin hard enough to leave a red mark and jerks his head upwards.

“Look at me when I’m speaking to you,” he orders. “We’ve gone over this before, haven’t we?”

_Last time I did, you hit me for looking insolent,_ Armitage wants to dissent, but isn’t foolish enough to try.

“Yes, sir,” he says instead. “I’m sorry. This will be the last time.”

“I doubt that,” Brendol snaps. “Liars never look others in the eye, and saying that you’re lying to me right now, I should have expected no less from you, boy.”

“I didn’t lie to you.”

The words escape Armitage’s lips before he can stop them. He pays with a blow to the face from the baton. He barely has time to let out a single gasp of pain before his father grabs him again, fingers pressing into the fresh bruise.

“I said to look at me!” Brendol seethes. “Don’t you dare speak to me or any other superior officer like that ever again! Understood?”

The question is followed by another blow to the face. Armitage chokes out his reply through the metallic taste of blood:

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry. I… I understand.”

“Now,” Brendol’s voice has risen to a shout, “Since you are either too thickheaded, too impertinent or both to understand what you have done wrong, you may shut your trap while I explain it to you. Lieutenant Pars reported to me this morning that you were absent at the time of rollcall and were still absent nearly an hour into the start of the session. Yet, you had the audacity to slither in late with neither an apology nor an explanation, hoping that your sloth would go unnoticed!”

The baton strikes Armitage two more times. He bites his tongue, refusing to let the other cadets see him sobbing. He wipes a trail of blood from his nose.

“Well, boy?” his father yells. “Do you have an explanation?”

“I…” Armitage despises the quaver in his voice, despises his involuntary tears, despises the way he looks so _helpless_. “I’m s-sorry.”

He blocks the next attack with his hands. There will be another bruise, no doubt, but it’s better than a broken jaw.

“ _I did not ask for an apology_!” Brendol says through clenched teeth. The baton falls once more on his son’s hands. “I asked for an explanation!”

“I over… I overslept,” Armitage pleads. “I’m sorry. The medicine…”

“Excuses,” Brendol declares, administering another agonizing strike. “I’ve had enough of your excuses. The medicine does nothing to change the fact that you have proven yourself repeatedly to be lazy and irresponsible. Do you understand?”

“Yes, s-sir. I… I understand.”

“Then what is your explanation for your behavior today?”

It’s all too familiar to Armitage: the scalding stares of his peers, the way Brendol’s subordinate officer turns a blind eye. Faceless sniggers ricochet behind him. They all know the answer the Commandant expects. Armitage knows better than anyone. He chokes out the words, swallowing his stammer.

“I was late because I am lazy and irresponsible. I’m sorry, sir.”

His father’s satisfaction is evident to everyone present.

“You are dismissed until the next session,” says Brendol.

Armitage eyes the stack of meal tickets and receives an apologetic look from the officer in charge of them before his father pulls him away by the shirt collar.

“Don’t hold up the others. You know you don’t deserve one, boy.”

 

_Residential District of Yavin 4_

Kes Dameron sits on the edge of his bed, listening to the transmission for what feels like the thousandth time. It’s a coded message, meant to be disposed of later as a precaution, and will likely be the last of its kind for a long spell. Its contents is sobering.

With an entire Star Destroyer of fighters closing in on the system, the threat of the blockade is now a harsher reality than anyone in the Resistance had expected. Clearly, the First Order has anticipated opposition to the draft and taken “precautions”.

Escape would be perilous, a suicide mission or worse. During his younger years in the Galactic Civil War, such risks were permissible. Following the birth of his son, the consequences were weighted. After Shara’s death, they were out of the question.

The footage of Ketall’s destruction has rippled through the galaxy. The Senate, for all its admonitions, might as well be silent on the issue. Thus, the First Order has presented the options and outcomes:

Flee, and your children will be counted as the spawn of war criminals.

Hide, and they will burn.

Join us, and they will be safe.

The Resistance has already devised a new angle. It doesn’t sit well with Kes or anyone else in their right mind, but it’s the best they can do to cut their losses. Losing your children is terrible enough. Losing them to the conditioning is worse, but the Resistance has ways of concealing connections.

The idea of the First Order Flight Academy being a secure environment, much less in conjunction with espionage, is bitterly comedic. But safety is relative in times of war.

And Kes will do what it takes to protect his son.

 

_The Herald_

By the time Armitage returns to his father’s quarters in the evening, the painkillers have mostly worn off. For now, however, the aching of his injured arm is dwarfed by that of the fresh bruises. He presses an ice pack against the dark contusion on his cheek, doing the same for his hand which he tries to bind with gauze. It’s the only kind of medical supplies the Commandant’s protocol droid could produce. At least, it’s all Armitage was allowed to have.

The binding on his hand begins to unravel, and he tucks it back in place. He sets the ice pack aside and pulls the data pad across the table towards him. Another set of registrant files. The Commandant had complained of inaccuracies in the boy’s morning work and demanded that the task be redone before dinner.

“ _Careless, stupid mistake. It’s simple work, boy._ ”

“ _I know, sir._ ”

“ _Then, explain to me why it was not done correctly the first time?_ ”

“ _Because I’m stupid… I’m sorry…_ ”

The gauze around his hand unfolds again. This time, Armitage rips it off and shreds the flimsy material. Soon, the table is littered with fine clumps of cotton. He grabs the torn pieces, storms over to the waste bin and hurls them inside.

He returns to the data pad and realizes he’s lost his place. When he was younger, he would cry about these frustrations. Now, he curses, searches for blame. He berates his stupidity, his laziness…

No wonder his father must act as he does.

“ _Let this be the last time, boy._ ”

Someday it will be.


	3. Caution

_7 Years Later_

_Pelacia_

The shuttle begins its descent over an endless stretch of saltwater cut by ancient cliffs. Perhaps, in another time, the scenery was peaceful, but today the sunlight is oppressive, and the water crashes against the jagged rocks.

Armitage surveys the ocean as the shuttle tilts gently to its side. It’s been a smooth journey from the _Herald_ to the base on Pelacia, despite threats of a Resistance attack. Still, the crew remains wary. Threats are more often delayed than refuted.

The arched back of an immense sea creature breaches the surface below. Before Armitage can get a closer look, the creature disappears with a spray of water. He can’t say for sure what it is based on his rudimentary research on the planet, but from what he’s been told, the wildlife here is of little concern. Pelacia is one of the more secure locations, a temporary reprieve for those about to depart for the battlefield.

Secure or not, the entire planet feels foreign, far too unfamiliar for Armitage to be at ease, as if the recent change in both squadron and station wasn’t enough to compound his feelings of displacement. Granted, part of him is grateful for any means of escape; he’s been imprisoned in the Herald’s horde of trainees for far too long. But new territory is a disadvantage in itself, and he can’t afford such hindrances, not when he’s trying to juggle so many delicate opportunities.

“ _Impressive for your age,_ ” he remembers his father muttering. If not for the look of distaste, the words may have been a rare scrap of praise. “ _You’ve gotten lucky with this, boy. Don’t blow it._ ”

Armitage isn’t naïve enough to call his new squadron a team. It’s a tentative alliance at best, one that he still hasn’t secured a grip on. Progress is hard enough within the group; on the outskirts, it’s nearly impossible.

And he _needs_ progress. His father _demands_ progress while expecting exactly the opposite, and Armitage knows better than anyone that demands must be fulfilled. Fortunately, he’s always found his own means of completing such orders, even if they are a little out of the ordinary. This time is no different.

 “Enjoying the view, kid?”

Armitage honors the question with a cursory glance at the soldier seated across the aisle, Elson, he thinks, assuming he’s getting the names right. He’s a few years older than Armitage, as is the rest of the squadron, though the age difference is hardly enough to justify the derision.

“You’ve been ogling it like you’ve never seen water before,” Elson gibes.

Some people just refuse to be ignored.

“Would you prefer I stare at you for the entire ride?” Armitage says. “I should hope not. I like to avoid an ugly view when I travel long-distance.”

One of the other passengers chuckles. Elson leans back in his seat, smirking.

“Didn’t think you’d be so picky,” he says, “Given everywhere you’ve been…”

A scornful snigger ripples through the shuttle. Armitage feels a numbness come over him, one that goes deeper than simple embarrassment.

“Come on, El,” the soldier seated next to Elson says. “No need to bring _that_ up. Makes me sick just thinking about it.”

Armitage clenches his fists but makes no move beyond that. The last thing he needs is to rile up commotion on the shuttle so that his squadron can have a good laugh over Little Armitage being chastised. After they land, it’ll be a different matter, but for now, he lets the baiting slide.

The shuttle swoops downward, making his head jerk backwards. He’s never been too fond of smaller starships. There’s something inherently unstable about them that even the best shields can’t rectify.

Outside, the seascape is replaced by the metal walls of the hangar. The shuttle comes to a stop with a seamless landing. Armitage gathers his duffel bag from beneath the seat and disembarks with the rest of the passengers

A stern-faced man meets them at the landing bay. He’s dressed in the distinctive grey uniform designating the rank of lieutenant and accompanied by a pair of Stormtroopers. The soldiers raise their hands in salute. The lieutenant returns it and continues with business:

“The Herald’s Elite Onith Squadron,” he says. “Well, if you’re indeed so ‘elite’, you should have no problem following these simple orders. Your introductory briefing will be at 7:00 in the assembly hall at the western wing. Now, as your delayed arrival has already placed us behind schedule,” He gives the disembarking shuttle pilot a censorious glare. “You’d better get moving. The assembly hall is straight to the left of the hangar, easy to find unless you’re incredibly inattentive or incredibly dense. A superior officer will give you instructions from there on out. Understood?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Dismissed.”

The group sets off as commanded. Armitage follows at the back, trying to keep just enough distance to avoid confrontation without appearing too detached. No one appreciates aloof newcomers, and judging from his past experiences, people tend to give out the label of “snob” all too willingly.

“Hux!” the lieutenant calls out.

Armitage turns towards the lieutenant, who beckons at him with a gruff, “Over here.” Disparaging stares follow him as he breaks away from the group.

“Yes, sir,” he says, standing alert before the lieutenant, waiting to receive orders just as he’s rehearsed.

“Thought you were the one,” the lieutenant says. “Armitage Hux, right? Major Brendol Hux’s kid?”

“That is correct sir,” Armitage replies, sure to keep a phlegmatic tone. He receives a long, scrutinizing look and resists the urge to squirm.

“I suppose I see the resemblance,” the lieutenant mutters.

If the comment hadn’t come from a superior, Armitage would have scoffed at it. He’s been privy to enough gossip to know he bears much more resemblance to his mother, looking just enough like his father to stir up trouble.

The lieutenant waves the pair of troopers away with another sharp, “Dismissed”. They depart without question. He continues once they are out of hearing range:

“Well, your dad sure did get you somewhere.” Armitage cringes at the remark. “Because you have ‘individual orders’, as they call it. ‘Extraordinary circumstances’ concerning the Krennic Institute on Eadu. I assume you were notified beforehand of your upcoming departure to Eadu?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now, after the briefing with the rest of your squadron, you will need to report directly to the western command wing. There, you will speak directly with Director Talz via hologram to assure all the details of your assignment are clear. If anyone questions you, you are to say you have a meeting with your superior officer with no further embellishment. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

The lieutenant casts a quick glance at the entrance to the hangar.

“Be careful with this,” he says. “I repeat, do not embellish or disclose anything related to this assignment. This is a sensitive matter, as you must know. Our enemies are scouring for any piece of it they can find. I expect you’ll have some heightened security during your travels to Eadu. An escort, if you will. Your own private pilot…” He shakes his head. “Special treatment indeed. Hope you enjoy being pampered for now, boy. Just don’t get used to it.”

Ignoring the commentary, Armitage absorbs the new information like sour medicine. Added company, much less unanticipated company, is rarely a blessing when it comes to precarious assignments.

“A pilot,” he repeats, hoping the lieutenant will elaborate on his own. Subordinates aren’t meant to ask trivial questions.

“Starfighter pilot,” the lieutenant’s reply reeks with scorn. “Someone who knows how to fire the cannons if you run into… complications. The Director will give you further details, and I’m sure you’ll get a nice formal introduction with your _exclusive_ protection squad. Dad really did spare no expense on you, did he?”

Armitage has heard it all before. At times, he wonders how much the critics truly believe in their own accusations. Yet, even after the countless charges of nepotism, he can’t help but given a weak smile at the absurdity of it all. The lieutenant notices and seizes the opportunity to reprimand him:

“Wipe that spoiled smirk off your face! I don’t care what delusions you have about your standing here, whether you fancy yourself a little prodigy of some sort. You will treat your superiors with respect or have it beaten into you. Understood?”

“Understood, sir.”

This time, Armitage is sure to keep a straight face. The lieutenant scowls at him.

“The rest of your squadron should be in the assembly hall by now,” he snaps. “You have six minutes to catch up with them. Get moving.”

Armitage does as he’s told and hurries to the briefing, feeling the distrustful glares beating against him from all angles, ever resentful of the boy who should have been left behind. His father has made it clear to him that he doesn’t deserve a place amongst the elite squadrons, doesn’t merit any special assignment he may find. The lieutenant’s contempt comes as no surprise.

At least, he has something familiar to hold onto.

 

_Coruscant_

There’s nothing comforting about the underground levels of Coruscant. From the stench of unidentified fumes to the way the tunnels feel as if they’re closing in, the entire atmosphere is suffocating. It’s a stark contrast from the gleaming skyline a thousand feet above, and scarcely the sort of place one would go to by choice.

But that’s just the kind of seclusion Poe Dameron needs. It’s just enough to avoid the gossiping crowds without looking too suspicious. Or, more accurately perhaps, his work won’t look particularly suspicious amidst the other less-than-noble affairs. With a bit of charm and, as always, a bit of luck, he’ll be able to blend in with the gangsters and spice dealers enough to avoid any confrontations.

He saunters down the alleyway and looks up at the sign floating overhead:

“Takova Cantina and Inn,” it reads in gaudy, fluorescent Aurebesh.

He slips inside and is immediately hit by the saccharine odor of cilona smoke. A few of the patrons mark his entrance with disgruntled murmurs. He’s used to it by now. The First Order uniform does tend to draw mixed attention, but so long as you’re in the right part of town, it tends to keep ill-wishers away.

The proprietor, a young Balosar, sits slouched over the bar counter, twirling a steaming rod in his right hand. His dreary eyes wander in Poe’s direction and he quickly straightens up, setting down his pipe.

“Evening, sir,” he says, trudging over. Poe notes the nervous jitter in the his voice. “Welcome to Takova. You looking for a room? A drink? Or…”

“I’m looking for an acquaintance,” Poe replies, carefully monitoring his words. “From what I understand, she has a room, reserved under the name ‘Tallissan Lintra’.”

“Lintra…” the proprietor mutters. “Yes. I think she went down that way…” He gestures to the hallway to his left. “Last room.”

“Thank you,” Poe says.

The proprietor gives him a clumsy bow and backs away. The halls of the inn are short, and Poe arrives at the correct room without any unwanted confrontations. He knocks on the door which slides open a crack.

“Yes? Who is it?” a familiar voice asks.

“The First Order’s finest Wing Leader,” Poe answers.

He can practically see Tallie rolling her eyes before she replies with a sharp, “Oh, would you just get your ass in here without the boasting.”

The door zips open and closes behind him with a snap. The room is mostly empty, the only furniture being a small table with twin chairs and a bed with sickening stains on the covers. Tallie is standing on the other side, leaning with crossed arms against the peeling wallpaper.

“I guess the Resistance didn’t want to fund a five-star resort,” Poe remarks.

“Well, the soundproofing here is first-rate and that’s all that matters,” says Tallie. “Besides, I’m sure you’ll be very comfortable where you’re going. The First Order base on Pelacia can’t be too shabby. You know, General Organa calls it their ‘ocean vista’. No wonder only the favorites go there. Not saying that that should make you cocky though.”

“Come on,” Poe whines. “You know I’m never cocky without good cause.”

“Oh really?” Tallie laughs. “Be careful there. You’re not technically a Wing Leader yet, though from what the other sources have told me, you’re the favored one in your squadron.”

Poe shrugs, taking a seat by the coffee table. Tallie sits down across from him.

“That’s the goal,” he says. “They don’t go around telling the big secrets to any random pilots”

“Well, you’ve got to climb up then,” Talllie says, her grin fades and Poe knows it’s time for the banter to end. “And we have a plan for that, maybe even a bit of a bonus.”

“I’m listening.”

Tallie’s eyes flicker to the door instinctively before she continues:

“Our sources could only get limited information on your next assignment. They’ve been trying to find out all they can but, as we suspected, the First Order’s been very private about it. After all, it isn’t exactly standard business for them to have individual pilots leave their squadrons and ship them out to army bases. By the looks of it, they’ve got something very important that they need to keep well-protected, and they need a fighter pilot to do the job.”

“Why not get the whole squadron then?” Poe questions. “Or at least a bigger escort if it’s that important?”

“That’s just it,” Tallie says. “It’s got to be something to do with confidentiality. In other words, it’s too secret to have a whole gang of people entangled for risk of leaks.”

“Any idea what ‘it’ might be?”

Tallie shakes her head.

“Nothing specific,” she says. “We suspect it’s something to do with their weapons development or some other kind of research. One of our hacks uncovered a course from Pelacia to Eadu. It looks like the trip was planned a little farther in advance than usual, and the date range would match up with your orders. There’s nothing else on Eadu but the lab…”

“The Krennic Institute?”

“Yeah. If you’re lucky, you might be able to get your promotion plus a bit of extra info on the side. But it’s a lot of speculation. The course to Eadu might not even have anything to do with you, but it’s our best guess right now.”

“Well, a guess is better than nothing. Who knows? I might be able to get something a little more solid, maybe even some inside sources. I’ll be around the right people.” He manages a slight smirk. “It’ll just be a matter of chatting them up the right way.”

“That’s the basic idea, but be careful,” Tallie warns. “I can’t say exactly how diligent they are about the surveillance on the Pelacian base, but my guess is it’s fairly extensive. You’ll have to watch what you say.”

The strains of voices echo from the hall outside. Poe stiffens. His fingers grace over his blaster. Fortunately, the noise passes by without trouble.

“On that note, we probably shouldn’t loiter here too long,” Poe says, getting up from his seat. He wrinkles his nose. “If nothing else, we both need a break from the bad air. Something tells me they’re smoking even worse things here than cilona.”

“I’ve got to wait here a little longer,” Tallie sighs. “Wish I could go but there are only so many safe places to talk, you know. I’m expecting someone else. Hopefully, they’ll have something interesting to tell. Good news, maybe. Before you go, though…”

She pulls out a bag from beneath the bed and takes out a datapad.

“Oh, the Resistance got me some new tech?” Poe says. “How nice of them.”

“Yeah, I’d say it’s pretty nice,” Tallie replies, turning on the device. “Default passcode is ‘Raysho99’, no spaces, but you can change it to whatever suits you. The transmissions are set so that anything you send or receive from the Resistance will be coded and untraceable. If the First Order gets suspicious of you, even their best security scans will classify the abnormalities as nothing more than a minor bug.”

Poe takes the datapad and places it with his other belongings in the modest pack the First Order gave him. All personnel at his grade are encouraged to travel light to match the emphasis on resource conservation.

“I’ll be sure to keep it safe then,” he says. “I’ll be going then. I ship out to Pelacia a little past midnight.”

Tallie gives him a tight smile. They’ve known each other since childhood. With the war ever on the rise and the way people seem to fade away between the gaps, there’s always the lingering fear that their friendship will come to an untimely close.

“Take care of yourself then,” she tells him. “May the Force be with you.”

“May the Force be with us.”


	4. Protocol

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all those who have left kudos and comments on this story. I really value the feedback and appreciate that people are reading this. I hope you enjoy this next chapter!
> 
> A note on military culture in this story: Although some elements of the First Order military etiquette are loosely based on modern military protocol, much of it is based on my own interpretation of the characters and politics/military in the Star Wars universe. It's kind of a mixture of the two, but I'd say it definitely leans towards the fictional side.

Under most circumstances, a 2 AM briefing would be considered inconvenient to say the least. However, after hours of lying awake in his bunk, bleary eyes fixed on an arbitrary notch in the ceiling, Armitage counts the odd timing a blessing.

By right, he should have been exhausted enough to slip into deep slumber as soon as his head hit the pillow. He _does_ feel exhausted, but it still isn’t enough. Sleep hasn’t come easily for him for years now and the sleeping pills can only do so much. Some of the doctors attribute the insomnia to “stress”, others to the erratic schedule that comes with travelling between bases. He would like to believe them.

Whatever the cause, being awake and occupied is a welcomed alternative to another long, restless night. The tangled orders from consecutive briefings and the previous day’s drill routine pound in his head as he clambers down from the bed, making sure to tuck back the covers into a presentable arrangement afterwards.

He’s ready after a quick trip to the refresher to straighten his uniform. He’s been in the habit of wearing a clean uniform to bed, partially for convenience, partially because he doesn’t feel comfortable in anything else. Usually, he can get away with it; he doesn’t toss and turn enough for there to be noticeable wrinkles.

Nonetheless, he always feels a little guilty for deviating from protocol. It certainly isn’t the sort of routine his father would approve of. He still remembers the first incident when he forgot to take off his uniform before bed. He was ten at the time and had stayed out far later than any boy his age ought to for reasons he would rather not think about.

He remembers being tired and sick enough from the night’s events to drop dead as soon as he reached his bed. He woke up the following morning to a hand wrenching him up by the collar and his father’s shouting…

He returns to the barracks to retrieve his coat and datapad, leaving quietly before anyone notices him. He’ll have more than enough snide remarks to handle in the morning.

He squints as he steps out into the glaring lights of the hallway. Though the common areas are relatively deserted at this hour, the base is never fully asleep. Even now, the footsteps of patrolling Stormtroopers resound throughout the building.

The meeting is set to take place in the area adjacent to the barracks. There should be more than enough time to get there, though Armitage keeps up a brisk pace just to be safe.

He takes the elevator up five floors. The doors open on one of the colonels and two troopers. He salutes. The colonel returns it with a critical frown.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing loitering around?” she demands.

“I have orders to attend a briefing at 2:00 in the southern wing, ma’am,” Armitage replies.

“Oh, is that so?” the colonel says, raising an eyebrow. “Let me see your confirmation papers then.”

There must be a special kind of schadenfreude that comes from pinning down subordinates under forgotten rules. In any other case, the colonel would have had him, but these are extraordinary circumstances, and Armitage is even more careful than usual.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, pulling the requested documents from his coat pocket. Attached is the print copy of his ID from the labs on Eadu.

The colonel’s mouth thins into a tight line as she inspects the papers. She mutters a few discontented words to herself before shoving them back at him.

“Carry on,” she snaps before departing with the troopers.

The remaining walk to the briefing is blessedly uninterrupted. Armitage finds the meeting room with little difficulty. In the time since his arrival, he’s gotten a fair idea of the base’s layout. He’s still on edge in the foreign environment but knowing his way around is a start.

He keys himself in with his code cylinder. The doors part with a smooth _zip_ to reveal a cramped conference room, furnished with nothing but a few chairs and a long table with a hologram projector. A single oblong lamp illuminates the space with an unnatural, white glow, casting shadows against the grey walls.

The briefing’s audience appears to be as sparse as the décor. There is no sign of an officer, not even a protocol droid to take note of attendance. The only person present is a pilot seated at the end of the table who has taken full advantage of the solitude by sprawling his legs across two seats. Unruly curls fall over his face, as he rests his head on his shoulder, making Armitage wonder whether he’s interrupted the pilot in the middle of a nap.

He’s heard of the fighter pilot trainees being a little more relaxed, as some had tactfully put it. Their training is no less extensive than that of the army, but the _attitude_ is different, allowing for just enough lenience in the protocol to leave room for a more reckless psychology. Armitage supposes that one would have to be quite reckless to fly out in a TIE Fighter to begin with – there is a reason the ships have been regarded as suicide vessels since the days of the Empire – and so it makes sense that the pilots should lack some of the prudence of other recruits.

But this pilot, this level of casualness is too much.

Armitage heaves a sigh and takes his seat on the other side of the table. The pilot is staring at him, whether with curiosity or expectance, he can’t quite tell.

He tries to ignore the other man. The problem is there isn’t really anything else in the room worth paying attention to. For once, Armitage wishes there were more people around.

“Are you here for the briefing?”

Armitage reluctantly looks up at the pilot.

“Yes,” he replies.

 “So… I’m assuming someone will be coming to start it,” the pilot says, glancing at the door.

“Perhaps.”

Armitage only notices he’s been glaring at the pilot’s boots when the other man rests them back where they belong on the ground.

“Is that better?” the pilot asks.

“Yes.” Armitage isn’t quite sure why he honors the question with an answer. He immediately regrets doing so when the pilot _smirks_ at him.

In all fairness, it isn’t a malicious smirk, not like the looks he’s been getting from far too many of his fellow soldiers. One could almost call it a grin. He doesn’t know what to make of it.

He checks his watch. One minute to 2:00. Still no sign of an officer. The hologram should light up anytime now, unless they’re delayed at the source of the message. If it’s coming from the lab on Eadu, delays could mean anything from a trivial demonstration running overtime to an undetected air raid.

“I’m Poe.”

The introduction seems to come out of nowhere. The pilot’s tone is far too amicable for a military briefing. Armitage responds with a dubious stare.

“Poe Dameron,” the pilot goes on undeterred. “Enth 06 Squadron, First Order Flight Academy on Ganthel.”

“Oh, is that right?” Armitage says.

“I should hope so.” Poe pauses, inviting Armitage to give his own introduction. He gets none but pushes forward anyway. “You have a name?”

“Armitage…” He hesitates. He doesn’t feel any immediate need to disclose his surname. Perhaps the accusations of nepotism are finally getting to him. “Elite Onith Squadron, Arkanis Academy.”

“Arkanis Academy.” Poe frowns. “Didn’t they abandon that site years ago?”

“They abandoned the planet, but not the program. Most of the training was relocated to the _Herald_ , and the program kept the name…”

Armitage stops there, realizing he’s only encouraging the pilot. Again, he questions why he even bothered with an answer in the first place.

“Huh,” Poe says. His eyes dart downward before looking back up at Armitage. It’s a miniscule motion, but it doesn’t go unnoticed. “So, what brings you here?”

The question _sounds_ nonchalant, too nonchalant for comfort. Before Armitage can answer, the hologram projector illuminates with a beam of cobalt light.

“ _Insert code cylinder for scanning_ ,” a robotic voice instructs.

Armitage moves to the center to hold his code cylinder against the hologram. He can see the pilot watching him from the corner of his eye.

Poe scans his own code cylinder with no difficulty. The hologram confirms the security clearance with a single-note tone. The figure of a man in an officer’s uniform appears in the projector. Judging by the lightning and resolution, the hologram is prerecorded.

“ _Greetings_ ,” the officer says in a sterile voice. “ _You have been called here today to receive instruction on your recent assignment to Eadu, code X408, classification: Routine with Precautions. Listen closely to the following details. Should you wish for clarification on any of these instructions, you are to direct your concerns to your commanding officer or squadron leader._ ”

The pilot has returned to his seat. This time, he sits upright, his attention focused on the hologram. The change in demeanor shouldn’t be a surprise. After all, Poe must have had at least some sense of etiquette to climb high enough in the ranks for individualized missions.

“ _The Orson Krennic Institute of Research, located on the planet of Eadu, provides invaluable services to the First Order_ ,” the message continues. “ _The Institute requires the fuel coaxium anthracite to run the laboratories’ experiments and manufacturing projects. The First Order Base on Pelacia serves as an intermediary shipment point between the mining source on Nilash III and Eadu._

“ _Coaxium anthracite is a highly valuable compound, processed and shipped in small quantities. Due to the rise in assaults on the main supply rounds by Resistance forces, the Krennic Institute has requested that its supply of coaxium anthracite be transported in separate shipments._

“ _You will be tasked with the secure transportation of 700 kilograms of processed coaxium anthracite from the Base on Pelacia to the Institute on Eadu. You will depart at 04:00 from Pelacia on the sixth day of this month. Your starship assignment for this journey is Xi-Class Light Shuttle Number 136, located on Landing Bay A9. The journey has an estimated duration of 40 to 50 hours, depending on the route selected.”_

Armitage considers the task. He’s familiar enough with coaxium anthracite, having witnessed it’s use multiple times. The mineral is indeed a vital resource, and one could easily believe that the Institute would not wish to depend solely on the main transports for its supply. The reasoning is just valid enough to make for a good excuse.

“ _Although precautions have been taken to keep information of this journey classified, the possibility of an attack by the Resistance remains a threat. Be alert and cautious at all times during this journey. Should you encounter a hostile starship, you are to shoot it down or, should doing so put the shipment at greater risk, evade the enemy and contact the Institute for support ships._

“ _You are expected to familiarize yourself with the controls and security features of your assigned starship prior to departure. Assignment details will be available in written form on your datapads as of 12:00 today. If you have not yet registered your datapad with the central database on Pelacia, you must do so prior to 12:00. Should you seek clarification on any of the assignment details, you are to direct these to your superior officer._

“ _Good luck. The First Order thrives on your loyal service._ ”

The hologram flickers to an end. Armitage feels the pilot’s eyes on him again. He shouldn’t think twice about it. He shouldn’t be bothered by it.

He’s learned well that attention is not always a blessing. Stars know he’s experienced too much attention of the wrong kind. Now, the pilot is certainly paying attention to him. Armitage can’t tell whether it’s the good kind.

He can only hope he’ll find out soon. The hologram made no mention of any other crew members onboard the shuttle. If this is indeed a two-man mission, whatever misgivings he may have about the pilot are of no importance.

“Well, that would be it then,” he says, sure to keep his tone even. “I suppose you plan to see the shuttle in the hangar today?”

“I… yes, I do.” Poe frowns as if the idea of visiting the shuttle disturbs him. “Sometime in the evening… I guess you plan to do the same?”

“Saying that I am required to do so, yes,” Armitage replies dryly, wondering whether orders are optional at the Flight Academy.

“Hmm. Alright,” Poe hums before adding, almost as an afterthought, “You know, you didn’t strike me as a pilot…”

“I’m not,” Armitage says with a hint of umbrage.

“That’s what I thought, looking at your uniform and… well, your attitude,” Poe smiles. For a moment, Armitage half-expects the pilot to burst into laughter. “You’re in the army, obviously enough, but you do have some kind of piloting experience, don’t you? I didn’t know they taught that kind of stuff in the army…”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Just the basics…” Poe’s smile wanes almost imperceptibly. “Enough to operate a light shuttle.”

Armitage recognizes the underlying accusation immediately. Had the pilot’s doubts been unfounded, it would have made his blood boil. As it is, however, Poe has a point, a point that is growing increasinly worrisome the more Armitage considers it.

“Of course, I know.” The lie slips out instinctually, leaving him to hope he won’t regret it. “Why else would I be selected for this assignment.”

“You never know,” Poe says with a shrug. “Just wanted to be sure you weren’t planning to pile two sets of controls on me in case we run into trouble.”

“I try not to shirk my duties, thank you very much,” Armitage replies.

“Well, I’m relieved,” the pilot says. “Would you like to come with me then to see the controls?”

Armitage straightens his posture and answers steadily, “I should be finished with my routine by 22:00.”

Poe is grinning again. It isn’t scornful, but there’s a teasing glint in his eyes that Armitage can’t quite ignore.

“That won’t be past your curfew will it?” Poe asks.

“I have a certain degree of flexibility in my schedule,” Armitage replies. “You?”

“I’ve got a similar excuse.”

Armitage grits his teeth. He resists the urge to argue, though the very idea of his qualifications – his _earned_ qualifications – being dubbed as “an excuse” grates at him like a thorn.

“Well, it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance… Dameron,” he says, a stoic courtesy.

“You’ve got places to be, Armitage?” Poe asks.

“Yes.” Armitage stands up to leave. “I suppose you don’t?”

“Some sleep if I can get it,” Poe replies lightly. “Might stay here a bit longer just to wrap some things up.”

He indicates his datapad. Armitage gives him a slight nod and turns to leave.

“I’ll meet you at the landing bay at 22:00 then?” the pilot calls after him.

“Yes,” Armitage says, keeping his back to the other man. “22:00 today, Landing Bay A9, I shall be there.”

The door slides shut behind him. To his relief, the hallway is empty.

He thinks of the pilot. There’s an insouciant air about the man, one that Dameron seems cocky enough to project, at least around those of equivalent rank. Presumably, the pilot is different around his superiors. He must have a favorable record to receive this assignment.

Perhaps it’s simply a matter of different standards for separate military branches yielding different personalities. That seems like the most probable explanation.

But for reasons he can’t quite pinpoint, Armitage isn’t satisfied with the common answer. His kinder superiors viewed his paranoia as youthful anxiety, others saw it as cowardice disguised as nerves. He doesn’t care either way. Suspicions are only natural, and instincts, especially adaptive ones, are not easily silenced.

 

Poe waits for the soldier to leave before switching on his data pad. A short scan around the room reveals one standard surveillance camera but no other security precautions. The First Order does know how to keep things simple when they want to.

He considers the hologram’s instructions. The assignment is fairly straightforward, no more than a glorified cargo run with the usual dangers of any interplanetary mission. True, the cargo is exorbitant, definitely not the kind of supplies the First Order would risk falling into the hands of Resistance smugglers.

Still, it doesn’t seem practical to entrust something so important to a crew of two young recruits, one of whom isn’t even a pilot by training. Armitage doesn’t quite fit Poe’s image of a soldier either for that matter. He’s too thin, or maybe it’s just the way he carries himself that makes him appear delicate. He seems better suited for a sedentary job on the Bridge, judging by the way he speaks. Not the kind of man one would expect the First Order to put in the trenches.

But that isn’t all that worries Poe. It isn’t too difficult to tell that Armitage is the wary sort, the way he _sculpts_ his answers. The First Order recruits don’t tend to be the most trusting of people. Poe has had a few uncomfortable encounters with other recruits in the past, but he’s always been able to ward away any rising suspicions. His commanding officers have noted “differences” in his attitude. He’s been lectured on deviation from protocol a few times, but nothing more has ever come of it.

This time, however, Poe fears that Armitage is the kind of man who’s suspicions not so easily supplanted.

_Keep an eye on that one_ , he thinks. _Can’t have him running off to the interrogation squad to report you after a little slip…_

He tells himself he’s only joking.

He makes a mental note to send a message to the Resistance’s contacts in the Senate. Hopefully, some extra information on the Institute’s fuel shipments will get him somewhere. From there on, it’s all the usual procedure of saying and doing the right things at the proper time. He’s been playing this game for years now. This next assignment is nothing new. He’s confident of it.

And a little confidence never hurts.


	5. Distance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who is following this story! I appreciate all the generous feedback I have received here.

Poe holds his breath as the technician approaches with his datapad. To his relief, she hands the device back to him.

“You’re registered with the database now,” she says. “Take care of this. It gave my team problems, took them longer than usual to synchronize the systems.”

“Oh, did it?” Poe asks. “Do they know why?”

“Probably just the usual trouble with older models,” the technician replies. “Nothing that would affect the function.”

“Good to know,” Poe says, masking his relief. “Well, thank you.”

After exchanging salutes, he leaves for the landing bays. His day has been surprisingly slow-paced, by the First Order’s standards at least. He even had a chance to catch a few hours of sleep after the briefing. It’s almost too calm for comfort.

He follows the row of numbers projected above the doors until he reaches A9. A quick scan of his code cylinder gains him entry.

The door snaps shut behind him. The lights flicker on as he steps onto the landing bay, the same cold glow that permeates the rest of the base. There are few windows in this area, and he hasn’t been permitted to step outside since his arrival. Whether it’s fear of hostiles or of deserters that keeps all the cadets locked inside, Poe isn’t about to question the rule.

Still, a bit of real sunshine and fresh air would be nice. So much for this being the First Order’s beach resort…

The shuttle is in the center of the landing bay, bound in place by several thick cords anchored to the walls. It’s a little smaller than the other Xi-class models he’s seen. A quick survey of the exterior features reveals a pair of proton cannons, both of which look as if they’ve never been used.

It’s already past the agreed meeting time, and Armitage has yet to arrive. As far as Poe knows, First Order soldiers do not have a reputation for being late. He wonders what excuse Armitage will come up with. He’s already sure it’ll be a lie.

Poe circles to the other side of the shuttle and finds the identification code printed at the base of the rightmost wing. After another quick look around to assure that he’s alone, he takes out his datapad. He leans back against the shuttle, hoping to obscure the screen from any security monitors hidden above. The device scans the shuttle ID easily. The Resistance should receive the transmission within seconds.

He stays on his datapad a little longer flipping through information on scheduling and other trivial matters before placing the device back in his pack. There’s still no sign of Armitage. A flurry of concern creeps into the back of Poe’s mind. He pushes it aside. It’s unlikely anything has happened to his partner, at least within the safety of the base, and even if something did happen, it isn’t anything for _him_ to worry about.

He makes his way inside the shuttle next. The interior is surprisingly spacious. There’s even a small bunk built into the wall across from a sonic refresher. The pilot’s seat faces the main control panel lined with an extensive set of buttons and switches.

There’s a smaller panel in the back for operating the rear cannon. Apart from this feature, there doesn’t appear to be any need for a copilot unless the ship were to fall under attack. If all goes well with Poe’s transmission, the Resistance should know to stay clear of their shuttle.

The shuttle door opens with a deep hum. Armitage’s shadow stretches across the floor as he ascends the ramp.

“I thought you weren’t gonna show,” Poe says.

“I was delayed,” Armitage replies in a staid tone. His eyes are downcast, his red hair tousled in such a way that he looks disheveled despite the impeccable uniform. “My apologies. Such late arrivals will not be a regular occurrence, I can assure you.”

“It’s fine. It’s really fine… I… well, I just got here not too long ago.” Poe watches as Armitage approaches the main control panel. He appears to be masking a limp. “What happened to you?”

The question escapes before Poe can think better of it. He immediately regrets asking.

“Nothing,” Armitage snaps. “I’m perfectly fine, I…” He pauses, regaining his composure. When he speaks again, the words are labored. “I had a meeting with several senators from the Republic. They were here to discuss resource funds for my division and my squadron needed a representative.”

He glowers at Poe as if he’s challenging the pilot to question his explanation.

“Alright, that’s okay,” Poe says. He notices a bruise forming around the soldier’s chin. The injury looks new. He makes sure not to linger on it for too long. “You’re here and that’s all that matters.”

Armitage gives him a wary frown before craning his neck to look around the shuttle. He makes his way to the front of the ship and leans over the main panel.

“You want to sit down or…” Poe offers, but Armitage cuts him off with a firm “No.”.

Poe crosses his arms, letting his back slide against the shuttle wall. He watches as Armitage switches on the controls. The panel illuminates with a bright, red glow. The soldier’s hand wanders across the surface, stopping over a pair of silver levers. He murmurs something to himself.

“What was that?” Poe asks. Armitage scowls at him, making the pilot feel as if he’s intruded on something very private.

“S8 Class Particle Shields,” Armitage says. “One covering the front.” He indicates the topmost lever. “Another covering the back.” He points at the bottom lever. His finger moves to two buttons by the side. “Microray shields on the right and left sides.”

Poe lets out a whistle of surprise. “That’s a lot of security,” he remarks. “More than any of the shuttles I’ve ever flown.”

“They’ve been added in,” says Armitage. There’s a new note of muted fascination in his voice, which is probably pure excitement by his standards. “Normally, a ship this size wouldn’t have such equipment.”

“Are we expecting an X-Wing blockade or something?” Poe chuckles, hoping to keep the question light. Armitage however, responds in an even graver tone than before:

“We’re transporting valuable cargo. The shuttles are small and having a full artillery with shields uses twice the fuel of an unarmed ship the same size, _especially_ the shields. The S8 shields alone nearly double the fuel usage. It’s inherently inefficient. They wouldn’t be using shuttles with full shields and artillery if there wasn’t a high probability of meeting hostiles.”

At first, Poe thinks to ask how Armitage happens to know the power logistics of S8 shields, or half of what he’s pointed out about the control panel for that matter. It doesn’t sound like the type of thing a drill sergeant would cover between exercises. After some consideration, however, Poe decides against questioning the soldier on the subject. The most he’ll get is an excuse.

 “Well, if we’re expecting some unfriendly company,” he says. “We should probably cover the artillery controls.”

“Pardon?” The suspicion in Armitage’s voice makes a flutter of unease run down Poe’s spine. Then again, he’s starting to think Armitage’s default tone is somewhere between suspicious and accusatory.

“The artillery controls,” Poe repeats. “If we’re gonna run into trouble, we should probably know how to shoot it down.”

“ _I know that_.” Armitage catches his temper again, subdues it to a icy kind of formality. “Isn’t that the kind of thing you’ve trained for? I find it difficult to believe a fighter pilot your age would still have to review how to fire a cannon.”

Now, Poe feels his own anger rising within him. He replies in what he hopes is a polite manner:

“Of course, I’m familiar with them. Toggle for cannons, missiles, mag pulse, deuterium-tritium switch…” He points to each feature as he lists them. “Controls to aim, adjust monitor… all that. I just thought that we should go over _your_ controls while you’re here.” He nods at the back of the shuttle. “Unless you plan on having me sprint down the shuttle to operate both the front and the rear cannons while we’re under attack which doesn’t sound too efficient, if you ask me.”

“No, I would never suggest something so absurd,” Armitage says. “I’ll operate the rear cannons if we need them, but I can review my own controls without your _assistance_. I’ve fired a blaster before…”

“This is a little different from a blaster.”

“It’s the same concept on a general level.”

“Well, I guess you could say they both blow things up.”

“I was referring to the similarities in the physical principles behind the particle beam of a blaster and that of a proton cannon, but I suppose both comparisons are valid.”

The two men exchange disgruntled stares. Poe takes a deep breath.

“Would you like me to show you? Just to make sure we’re on the same page?” he asks.

To Poe’s relief, Armitage nods, alebit reluctantly, green eyes flickering with annoyance. They walk to the back of the shuttle – Poe ignores the way Armitage lags behind – and switch the secondary control panel on. Poe runs through the most important features, how to aim at targets on the monitor, the kinds of momentary glitches to look out for and how to fix them. Armitage makes no comment other than a few clarifying statements. His petulance has died down. Without it, he seems drained.

“It’s a lot to cover,” Poe concludes the lesson. “Probably too much to learn in less than a day, to be honest, but we’ll manage.”

“I can handle it,” Armitage says. He doesn’t look at Poe. Instead, he fixes his eyes on the ground and murmurs, almost but not quite to himself, “I’m not stupid.”

It’s not the kind of comment Poe would expect from the man who but a moment ago was giving him such a belligerent lecture on shields and power reserves. The shift catches him off-guard.

“Of course, you aren’t,” Poe says.

Armitage turns to him, his brow furrowed, silently requesting elaboration.

“You’re not stupid, I mean,” Poe continues. The words race before his thoughts, before his better judgment about caution when speaking with the enemy. “You know more about the mechanics than I expected, hell, more than I’d expect some pilots to know… it’s impressive.”

Armitage tenses. After a long, baffled look, he mutters a quick “Thank you”. He rests a hand on the console, rapping his fingers over the switch for the rear shields.

“These will only hold off an attack for so long at a far range,” he says, “Especially if there’s more than one ship after us. The Resistance doesn’t usually send lone fighters. The shuttle is too awkward to maneuver an escape.”

Poe considers this. The grim realization of what the mission could entail creeps up on him with predatory hands.

“We’ll have to shoot them down then,” the words are bitter gall in his mouth. “If they attack, that is. Depending on their formation, I may be able to handle most of the offensive. All we can do for now is hope for a smooth flight.”

The idea of a smooth flight is starting to sound ridiculous. Armitage gives the pilot a strained smile. He then draws back his sleeve to check his watch.

“I had best not strain the curfew too far,” He says. “I have certain privileges related to the mission, but they only go so far.”

“Yeah,” Poe nods in agreement. “I should turn in too. It’s late. I think I’ll just stay here a little longer to check the cannons again.”

“I will see you here in the morning for the departure then?”

“That sounds about right.”

“Good,” Armitage says. His hand flies upward in a salute. The gesture seems out of place for reasons Poe can’t pinpoint. “Good night, Dameron.”

Poe returns the salute. “Good night…” He hesitates, realizing that he still doesn’t know his partner’s surname.

“Armitage,” Armitage fills in.

“Yes. Good night, Armitage.”

Poe waits for the doors to close behind his partner before he takes out his datapad. He opens the file with the mission details and selects the tab for “personnel”.

“Personnel: 2. No profile information available,” the screen reads.

So Armitage’s apparent lack of a surname isn’t so trivial.

Poe sits down and runs a hand through his hair. He has yet to receive confirmation from the Resistance concerning his earlier transmission. The possible consequences of a failed transmission are even more worrying now.

He remembers when he was first drafted into the First Order, a petrified eleven-year-old swearing loyalty to an enemy force far larger and colder than his young imagination could ever have envisioned. He thought often then of his parents’ war against the Empire.

He had once spun fantasies of fighting such an enemy, but those were only inane stories over which he’d had sovereign control. Now, he found himself confronted with a very different game of pretend. The other Resistance spies and their allies in the Senate comforted him as they were able, but above all they were sure to drill into him the importance of _keeping his cover_.

“ _Follow their protocol. Do whatever it takes to do well on the simulations, no matter how wrong they seem. It’s the only way to catch the officers’ attention._ ”

“ _People will get hurt. Don’t question it. Your progress helps the Resistance in the long run._ ”

“ _All it takes is for them to find one of us, then the whole operation goes down. And it’s not just us. It’s our families, our friends…_ ”

“ _Fight for them, kill for them if you have to. We all make sacrifices. Just remember who the real enemy is, what you’re really fighting for and you’ll be on the right side._ ”

_Remember who the real enemy is_. That’s the rule. Poe just needs to stick by it.

But rules are much harder to follow in practice.

 

Later that night, Armitage storms out of the barracks, the jeers of his squadron pounding in his ears. His left hand grips his bag, which he packed earlier for fear of precisely this kind of trouble. The other clenches his blaster.

He steps into the refresher. It’s deserted at this hour. His pulse still races as he removes his clothes. The water is freezing when he first turns it on. He steps in anyway, unable to care less about the chilling temperature.

He closes his eyes, trying to beat down that subverting feeling of vulnerability, of weakness. When he cannot subdue it, he pushes it away.

For one blissful moment, everything is distant. He opens his eyes and imagines the world through an observer’s lens. He watches the water drip off his shivering, naked frame. He hears the rush of the water like a cry in a memory long-forgotten. He shifts the frame downward and sees the blood pooling at his feet.

Then, he steps out of the shower and faces his own, **_pathetic_** reflection in the mirror. He wants to scream at it, wants to bash that **_sobbing wretch_** into the marble counter before him until his skull shatters.

His fist collides with the counter, hard enough to scrape his knuckles. The fresh wound stings and realization floods back to him, drowning him. He forces himself to be alright.

He straightens his uniform, gathers his bag and steps out into the hall. A sickening feeling churns in his gut as he looks back in the direction of the barracks. It is then that he violates protocol for the second night in a row and heads directly to the shuttle bay. He tells himself it’s madness, ordering that he turn around this instant and return to his proper place with his squadron. But none of that seems to matter.

He enters Landing Bay A9 with his code cylinder. Dameron is gone now, unsurprisingly. Armitage knows it’s better that way. He needs to be alone.

He climbs the shuttle ramp, wincing with each step. The bleeding has stopped, and for that he’s grateful. He can ignore pain well enough.

The shuttle is dark inside. Both control panels are switched off. Armitage approaches the main controls, runs a ghostlike hand over them. He gazes out the front window of the ship, out the entrance to the landing bay where dark fields of stars can be seen behind a hazy screen.

He has to drag himself away from the view. He staggers to the shuttle’s bunk and slowly lifts himself onto the mattress. There, he shuts his eyes and pleads for sleep.


	6. Merits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all. Thank you again to everyone for the feedback. I'm sorry this took so long to post. This chapter went through a whole slew of revisions and drafts. I'm hoping to get the next one up much sooner now that I have a bit of free time.

Armitage’s eyes snap open to the sound of voices outside. He can’t remember how much he slept. The previous evening is a blur with a few unfortunate moments of clarity.

It’s 3:40 in the morning and still dark outside. He rolls over in the bunk and is about to close his eyes again when he realizes he’s in a shuttle with ambiguous authorization, and said shuttle is set to depart in anytime now. It isn’t a pleasant realization.

He swings his legs down from the bunk, gritting his teeth from the aching which _begs_ not to be ignored. He’s halfway across the shuttle when the door opens. He fumbles for his identification documents, gathering the scattered pieces of an excuse.

“You’re here early this time,” Poe says, as he steps up the entry ramp.

Armitage stares at him, unsure whether to be relieved or not. He expected the lieutenant, or worse, one of his fellow soldiers who would all too happy to report him for violating protocol. He supposes Dameron is a better alternative. The pilot doesn’t seem perturbed by the situation. If anything, he looks amused, leaning against the entrance to the shuttle with his resting grin.

“You sound surprised,” Armitage remarks dryly. “Did you expect me to be late?”

“Nothing like that,” the pilot says with a shrug. “Just didn’t expect you to be this early… it’s sort of a redeye flight. Thought you’d want to catch some sleep beforehand.”

“I’ve made do with less…”

Armitage is cut off by the sound of an incoming transmission.

“ _Shuttle Number 136, come in_.”

“Hold that thought,” Poe says, as if excusing himself from a playful chat, before making his way to the head of the ship and answering the transmission. His tone changes immediately from one of casual banter to disciplined formality. “This is shuttle number 136, flight code X408. Go ahead.”

“ _This is the control center for Hangar A confirming that your personnel authentication and flight confirmation documents are in order. 136, prepare for loading crew.”_

“Copy that.”

The shuttle doors open and a crew of cadets – some of whom don’t look older than ten – march in, pulling a cart of square crates marked with the emblem of the First Order, each a little under two feet long. A cautionary notice has been posted onto the cargo.

“‘ _Warning: Material Unstable Under High Temperatures_ ,” Poe murmurs, watching the loading crew secure the crates into the shuttle’s hold. “Always thought the whole idea of adding anthracite was to make the coaxium _less likely_ to explode.”

“And it certainly does,” Armitage says, his voice spiked with disdain. “The anthracite reduces the likelihood of spontaneous combustion, but both compounds are unstable given extreme heat. The combination fares no better under high temperatures.”

Poe turns to look at him, and for a moment, Armitage wonders whether he’s offended. It wouldn’t be the first time a fair correction was taken as an unprovoked insult. To his surprise, Poe chuckles.

“Learned that at the academy too?” he asks.

“Some of it.” Armitage flushes in spite of himself.

“Hmm…” Poe glances at the warning again. “ And ‘high temperatures’ means what exactly, in this case? Like an oven? Nice sunny day?”

“Fire,” Armitage deadpans.

“So, as long as we keep the ship from catching fire, this stuff should be fine?”

“You could view it that way.”

“Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

The crew places the final crate into the hold and leaves without a word after the usual exchange of salutes. Poe takes his seat at the front of the ship and resumes the departure protocol:

“Control, this is Shuttle Number 136. Cargo has been transferred onto the ship and secured. Over.”

_“The ground squad is ready for takeoff_ ,” comes the reply. “ _136, proceed with take-off. Over._ ”

“Copy that,” Poe replies. “Commencing primary ignition. Over.” He turns to Armitage and nods at the seat beside him. “You might want to buckle up.”

Armitage tenses, indignation towards receiving instructions like a child welling within him. He shoots the pilot a bitter scowl and takes his seat, posture straight, tired eyes working to get a firm grasp on the view before him.

The transparent screen of the hangar’s entrance lowers. An inkling of a sunrise outlines the horizon, spreading narrow fingers of light over the rocky ocean. The shuttle engine rumbles beneath them.

Armitage inhales deeply, scolding himself for his racing heart rate. It’s an asinine instinct which he despises for its illogical persistence. Poe’s eyes flit towards him. It’s barely even a glance but still enough to make him force his unease under control.

The forward momentum presses him against his seat as the ship comes to life, streaking out of the hangar over the ocean. The base of the shuttle skims the agitated surface, sending white sprays of water over the side windows before they pull up into the clouds. Poe continues his exchange with the control center, the customary procedure.

Armitage keeps his eyes fixed on the console in front of him, idly twisting the handle of his bag in his lap. His heart calms as the atmosphere gives way to the black landscape of space. There’s something almost soothing about a successful departure. Leaving a planet always seems to feel better than arriving.

“Copy that. Course set for Eadu, estimated arrival in 1.7 standard solar cycles. Over and out,” Poe concludes the transmission. He turns to Armitage.

“First time nerves?” the pilot asks, all official airs dissipated.

“I’ve flown on a starship more times than I can count.” Armitage snaps. “I’m not much in the habit of walking between interplanetary bases.”

“I figured,” Poe says, reaching to flip a switch overhead. “Just wasn’t sure if this was your first time copiloting… you seem nervous.”

“I am _not_.” Armitage sighs, clenches his jaw. “I’ve done this before”

It’s a weak lie. He can tell Poe doesn’t believe it.

“Well, that’s good to know, Armitage,” the pilot responds amicably. “I just thought I’d ask so that I could tell you there’s nothing to worry about. This ship and everything… everyone in it’s in good hands.”

He tops off the sentence with a smug grin, which Armitage refuses to honor with a response.

He’s been on countless interplanetary missions before, scarcely staying in one system for more than a month ever since the academy was relocated to the _Herald_ , but those always entailed large groups in which no one was particularly inclined towards small talk. Even his specialized assignments have always been in the company of authority figures, most of whom he either trusted or knew enough about to manage the threats.

Most of his superiors avoided speaking with him beyond giving instructions. They all had their own reasons for avoiding conversation. Armitage was slow, as his father had warned them, and it was best to stick to plain and simple commands with the young cadets anyway; Armitage was snobby, as their fellow officers had warned them, and it was best to ignore the child to remind him of his proper place; or, in the rare compassionate cases, Armitage was simply meant to be left alone, as he had given them plenty of reason for concern which he’d rejected, and it was best to let him deal with whatever demons afflicted him alone.

This time is different. There’s no one here to give orders, no one to supervise. The idea of spending over a day confined in the ship with a near-stranger – especially one who _seems_ friendly – is more than enough to kindle his worries.

“We’ve made the jump to hyperspeed,” Poe says. He fiddles with a series of controls, presumably setting the ship to autopilot, and leans back, stretching his arms. “You can take the safety straps off now.”

Armitage takes the opportunity to move farther back in the shuttle. It’s not too much of an improvement in terms of privacy, but at least there’s some distance between them. He sits down on the bunk, making sure he can still see the pilot.

He blinks away another surge of weariness. He’ll have to sleep at some point during the journey. In theory, this shouldn’t be anything to be concerned about, but Armitage knows better. He also knows better than to think that the risk of things going dreadfully wrong can be prevented. Rumination is too tempting, and with each possibility he invents, the more probable the threats start to feel.

_Pull yourself together._

He thinks of the previous night and decides he can’t – _won’t_ – fall apart like that again. His squadron is undoubtedly mocking him for running off in the middle of the night. Perhaps they’ve taken the chance to report his misconduct to a superior officer, in which case Armitage is bound to return to a full dressing-down.

He’s had far too much trouble the past few days already. He orders himself to regain control, however much he can salvage. It works well enough. His breathing steadies. He folds his arms to keep his hands from shaking, staring blankly at his bag at his feet.

“I’m thinking breakfast now. Haven’t eaten anything since I woke up for the departure.”

Armitage flinches at the pilot’s voice. Cursing himself for being so easily startled, he looks up at Poe and says in the most indifferent tone he can manage, “No one’s stopping you. There’s food with the rest of the supplies.”

Poe is already rummaging through the storage compartment. He pulls out two packets and squints at the label.

“Polystarch, bluefruit jam and ration cube,” he reads. “Sounds gourmet.”

He shuffles over to Armitage and drops a packet in his lap.

“I’m not…” Armitage begins to protest but thinks better of it. Physically speaking, he’s starving, though he still has no appetite. More convincing is the idea that it would be irresponsible _not_ to eat. The academy taught him that his health was not to be treated lightly. His physical wellbeing was not a personal possession but an asset to the First Order that needed to be cared for with pride, just like a uniform or a blaster. (Unless, of course, he was being punished.)

With this in mind, he chokes down the ration cube first and then moves on to nibble on an especially bland roll of polystarch bread. He discards the jam, finding it far too sweet.

“Savoring your meal?” Poe asks.

“Not particularly,” Armitage says.

“You’re probably used to this shit though.”

“And I assume they give the fighter pilots something far superior.”

“Yeah. Smoked terrafin loin cooked-to-order, every day.”

Armitage rolls his eyes, finishes his polystarch and gathers the wrappers.

“Maybe we’ll get some real food on Eadu,” Poe muses. “It’s an elite research lab, isn’t it? You’d think they’d get the good stuff.”

The shuttle’s engine hums, interrupted only by the occasional stray beep from the control panel. Silence always feels heavier on the smaller ships like these, especially with so few passengers.

“It is a research lab,” Armitage says. He hopes that Poe will leave it at that; he already knows he won’t be so lucky. Chances are, the rest of the conversation won’t be about the shortcomings of military cuisine.

“You’ve been there before then?” Poe poses the question like an afterthought.

“I…” Armitage hesitates. After being called out for his supposed piloting experiences, he feels like he’s nearing an unspoken quota for lies, and he’ll likely need more later on in the mission. Besides, the destination for his assignments has never been much of a secret. The nature of his business on Eadu was a different matter, one he could easily avoid discussing if he was careful. “Yes. I’ve been to Eadu before.”

Poe nods, but doesn’t say anything in response. Content to leave the conversation at that, Armitage gets up to dispose of his ration’s wrappers.

“Field trip for the academy?”

Armitage gives the pilot a disdainful sigh, sensing a barrage of inane questions. At least, he hopes they’re inane questions. They have to be meaningless unless something – something secret – got out…

“I heard they like to station some kids at the labs,” Poe continues undeterred. “Good morale building and protocol and whatnot…”

“Yes, I was stationed there for a time as a child,” Armitage says. “Though I’d hardly call it a field trip.”

“Oh… you must have been doing well then.”

“Pardon?” Armitage frowns, trying to decipher whether the look on the pilot’s face is a sneer or a smile.

“I mean you must have been doing well at the academy,” Poe explains. “They don’t assign just any cadet, especially the young ones, to the research labs… and Eadu’s a special one. You must’ve been at the top of your class or something.”

“Not quite.” Armitage scoffs. He thinks to add how his father would never have allowed his weakling son to be at the top of any class but decides against it. Everyone knows that already. Everyone except this pilot, that is. Or maybe Poe does know, and this is all meant in spite. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Well, it’s still a prestigious assignment,” the pilot says. “You must have done something to deserve it.”

The wail of phantom fighters overhead ring in Armitage’s ears as the memories of Eadu creep back on him. A shiver runs over the faint mark on his left arm. It would have taken a special procedure to prevent scarring, something to do with the shrapnel material, and no one felt the need for superfluous corrections with everything else that was happening. He remembers the fiasco with the painkillers, his father shouting at the medical staff for poor management of the case. Half of the drugs made him feel half-dead and useless while others were too mild, leaving him with bolts of pain, flashing from where the bone had pushed through the skin. He didn’t go to his father until the sleepless nights became an impediment to his performance at the academy hoping he could prove his mettle by keeping quiet about his injury. But it had been worth it in the end…

“I did do _something_ ,” Armitage concedes. “But that isn’t to say I merited anything.”

“I think you’re being modest, Poe teases.

“In the end, it’s all a matter of duty.” Armitage answers as he’s been taught. It’s a generic statement, one that’s mostly true. He hopes it’ll be enough to end their discussion, or at least change the subject.

“Right, but…” the pilot is interrupted by a flashing light above the control panel, followed by a high-pitched, mechanical tone. The transmission screen flickers to life.

“We’ve been redirected,” Poe announces.

Armitage frowns, crossing to the front of the ship to see the message himself. The instructions are brief and clear.

“‘ _Developing hazards on Arda,’_ ” he mutters.

“Wonder what that might be,” Poe says. “It’s got to be pretty serious for them to redirect the flights away from a whole planet.”

Armitage considers this. He’s heard of threats in the Gordian Reach, rumors that the sector is an underground stronghold for the Resistance. The First Order has been monitoring for suspicious activity around Arda and Yavin 4 for years now, but the news thus far has been limited to trivial arrests which caused no disturbance. He wonders what they’ve found now. The discovery is significant enough to redirect an all flights along one of the main shipment routes, perhaps enough to matter in the course of the war. He feels a flicker of excitement at the thought of progress, but his skepticism keeps it hidden.

“Well, do we have a plan for another route?” he asks.

“Of course, I do.” Poe flashes a cocky smile before turning his attention to the navigation system. “Relax. This ship is in good hands. You don’t need to worry about…”

“Thank you for that reminder.” Armitage makes no attempt to conceal his exasperation. “May I ask our esteemed captain where our new route might take us?”

“Yavin System,” Poe replies. “It’s closer than the alternatives. Might take a bit of manual plotting, but I know the region well. _Very_ well, in fact.”

“I’m relieved we won’t be wandering aimlessly,” Armitage says. “My apologies if I don’t give you enough credit for that.”

After settling the navigation coordinates, Poe leans back in his seat, arms crossed with a kind of out-of-place ease.

“And here I was thinking you soldiers had no sense of humor,” he muses. “I guess we have the wrong impression of you back at the flight academy. Then again, they did say the army was more irritable. That part fits you. The title you just gave me was very nice though.”

“Excuse me?”

“Esteemed captain.” Poe is positively beaming now. “It has a nice ring to it.”

“Oh, I’m happy to hear it.”

With that, Armitage stalks to the back of the ship, determined to ignore the pilot for as much of the flight as possible.


	7. Company

Time trudges along as Poe gazes out the viewport, watching the streaks of starlight flitting past the shuttle. There’s something monotonous about long stretches of hyperspace travel. It really shouldn’t feel so tedious to be hurtling forward over a billion miles per second. But those billion miles are always empty. The moons and planets seem like stray marks in the vastness and passing them by in a blink of an eye only makes them seem more insignificant.

He raps his fingers against the back of his data pad, debating whether it would be safe to send a message to the Resistance informing them of the detour. He’s almost certain that Armitage won’t be watching and probably can’t see anything from where he’s seated, but “almost certain” isn’t sure enough.

Armitage hasn’t spoken in hours. In fact, he’s barely moved beyond retrieving his rations, silently picking at his bread as if he’s more offended by the act of eating than the rancid flavor of the food. Poe can sense he wants to be left alone – any idiot can gather as much from that scowl – and decides to let the soldier have his way for now. Maybe a break from the conversation will make him more receptive to questions later on, though Poe doubts it.

Armitage is obstinate, but it’s more than that. Even the more stubborn soldiers are usually receptive to any opportunity for boasting, some keeping a bit of distance all the while to make it clear they won’t be flattered into anything foolish. Armitage is not only wary, but flat out averse to discussing his achievements. Either he’s being extremely modest or extremely secretive.

The navigation monitor shows that everything’s in order. The new route has been recalculated, set and communicated to the base on Pelacia. The shuttle is set to reach the Yavin System in less than an hour.

Yavin 4 has been reduced to yet another white dot on the monitor, slightly smaller than those used to represent planets or stars. Poe traces their shuttle’s blinking trail on the schematic. He imagines the untainted jungles, the ageless temples, the marketplace at Vornez, the home he’d spent eleven carefree years in before the invasion came crashing down upon them, his father whom he hasn’t seen in seven years …

Poe didn’t know it would be that long at first. There were many things he didn’t want to believe, even when the skies were infiltrated by TIE bombers and the towns were drowned in the emblem of the First Order. It was only a matter of time before Kes Dameron received the promised transmission “congratulating” him on his son’s selection as a new cadet to serve the Order’s noble cause. A few days later, the Order also extended the same honors to Nix, having discovered that Kes had another potential soldier temporarily in his care.

Everything came together in a blur of events afterwards, culminating in Poe and several hundred other children being herded onto a series of transports. His father had assured him the Resistance’s agents within the Order would look after him, that they’d keep him from getting sucked into the growing spawn of the Empire, but he had cautioned him still:

_“Yes. The Resistance has friends and fighters hidden in the Order, but will be times when you cannot obey them. If you have to choose, obey your commandant, or officer, or whoever the Order puts in charge. The Resistance understands you’re limited. You can hate the Order, but you must never say a word about it, and you must obey to them, or they will hurt you.”_

_“You hated the Empire. Mom hated them too, and neither of you did what they wanted. Even though they could have hurt both of you.”_

_“We were adults, Poe, and we were fighting within our own ranks. Things are different when you cross over to the enemy’s side. You need to hide things, or they won’t trust you, and the consequences of that are too high to risk. Please, promise me you won’t give them any reason to doubt you.”_

And Poe promised. They also promised to see each other again soon, and the commandants who came to gather the child recruits assured the families that reunions would come soon enough, given the swift progress of the Order’s cause. There were even dates scheduled for the younger cadets to return home for brief visits, plans that were either postponed or cancelled altogether whenever they drew near. The Order was always apologetic, lamenting how the recent Resistance attacks on the major transport paths made interplanetary travel too perilous for the child recruits.

It didn’t take long for Poe’s commandant to discover the boy’s exceptional piloting skills, which far exceeded expectations for his age. Training at the Flight Academy was a prestigious opportunity for a child his age. It would have been nothing short of treasonous to turn down such an offer, even if the vigorous commitment preempted any possibility of returning home. The few members of the Resistance Poe had contact with supported this path. Clearly, he would be of more use as a spy if he was higher in the ranks.

Poe turns back to the viewport, pulling himself back to the present. He hears a yawn coming from the back of the ship. Armitage is stooped over in the hollowed-out alcove of the shuttle serving as a bed. Until now, Poe has never seen someone look _ill_ from lack of sleep, but Armitage seems far past that point.

The data pad from the Resistance is perched next to the main console, a constant reminder that Poe has yet to send word of the detour. It probably won’t make a difference, but there’s something unsettling about this method of communication. For one thing, he has yet to receive any confirmation from the Resistance of his previous transmissions. Of course, there’s a chance he simply missed the message, given that the transmissions were designed to delete themselves within a brief time frame without leaving any records. Nonetheless, Poe has never had full confidence in the system, and the recent incident registering the data pad on Pelacia is far from comforting.

He looks back at Armitage and wonders whether he can convince the soldier to take the rest he clearly needs. Perhaps that would give just enough time to check the data pad for any signs of bugs or tampering.

“Sleepy?” Poe calls over his shoulder.

Armitage murmurs something. The words are incomprehensible, but the edge in his voice is clear.

“What was that?” Poe asks.

“None of your business,” says Armitage, louder this time, though his words are still slurred.

“Sorry, Tage, but I beg to differ.”

Poe moves to the back of the ship and sits down on the stiff bed. To his surprise, Armitage looks not only annoyed but suspicious, eyeing him like a wounded animal, backed into a corner but still able to bite.

“We’re out here for over a day still, maybe longer with the detour,” Poe says.

“I know that,” Armitage growls.

“So, one of us is going to have to sleep at some point, unless you want me to pilot the ship with my eyes closed, and I’m not much into doing stunts on missions.” The joke does nothing to soften Armitage’s glare. “Anyway, I think we can both agree it’s better if we stagger the times when we’re asleep, so that one of us is always awake to keep watch. Just in case there’s trouble.”

“Fine. If you’re so tired already, you can have the bed. I’ll keep a look out the viewport.”

“I don’t think I’m the one who needs it right now…”

“Shut up.”

Armitage staggers to his feet, balancing himself with a hand against the walls.

“I’m fine,” he says.

“Really? Because you look like you’re gonna faint,” Poe observes. “Need me to catch you?”

“ _You keep your hands off me!_ ”

The intensity in Armitage’s voice takes Poe by surprise. The outburst seems to have taken a toll on the soldier. His trembling makes Poe wonder whether the other man is actually sick, whether his bitterness is due to a fever rather than a hostile temperament. Regardless it’s getting beyond a tolerable threshold.

“Okay, Tage,” Poe says. “It was a joke. Look, I just want this mission to run smoothly here, and things aren’t going to go well with you, half-dead from insomnia, snapping at me like a wild animal for making perfectly reasonable suggestions. Don’t you agree?”

Armitage gives him a long, scrutinizing look. After sizing up his opponent, he returns to the bed. He sits down, crossing his arms, drawing in heavy breaths.

“I’m sorry.”

The apology comes as a shock. Poe waits for a snide remark to follow but receives none.

“You know, I’m trying to make things easier for both of us,” he says slowly.

“Yes, I know,” Armitage seems burnt out. “I … I need to rest. It won’t be long. I should only need to close my eyes for an hour or so… please leave me alone for just that long.”

The last statement sounds oddly like a plea, but Poe doesn’t question it.

“Yeah, of course,” he says. “I’ll leave you be while you get some sleep.” He hesitates before adding, “Thank you for the apology.”

Armitage gives no reply. He waits until the pilot has returned to the front of the ship before lying down, curled inward to fit his long legs on the bench. He doesn’t look at all peaceful, his brow furrowed as if frozen midway through a frown, his skinny frame shuddering from sporadic chills. It doesn’t escape Poe’s attention that the soldier sleeps with his hand resting on his blaster.

Still, Poe is grateful for the improvement, mostly relieved to be able to use his data pad without fear of unfriendly onlookers. A few brief lines to Connix summarize his limited knowledge of the mission, the details of the detour, and a reminder of his shuttle identification code. The transmission clears from his records within thirty seconds, all according to plan.

 

Armitage finds himself in the throes of threshold consciousness some time later. His mind is scrambled. His paranoia tugs on his thoughts, trying to drag him back towards full attention, rattling away the long list of terrible possibilities.

He recalls the commandants’ stories of how the Rebels used sleep deprivation as part of their interrogation tactics. This strategy in combination with bloodier methods was effective enough to weaken the minds of some of the finest Imperial officers, allowing the Rebels to extract the plans for the Empire’s newest weapons. Exaggerated or not, the tales seem to hold true as far as the tortuous potential of restless nights is concerned.

Soon, even Armitage’s worst worries can’t win against his exhaustion. He sinks into what feels like a fever dream. The images and sounds are blended, too incoherent to be a waking memory but too vivid for the far depths of unconsciousness.

_He’s in the sitting room of his father’s quarters on the Herald. There’s a tall woman with greying, dark hair staring down at him. Besides her stands a man, younger and gaunt with a reptilian glint in his eyes. The woman asks Armitage if he’d like to come work with them, an elite assignment, an honor. He nods, setting aside his trepidation. He steps out the door…_

_And lines up in an assembly of cadets, awaiting a speech from one of the generals. Dopheld is next to him. He says Armitage should be proud. They don’t usually let the young cadets attend such important events. But Armitage isn’t proud. He knows he’s only there because of his father…_

_His father who’s shouting at him to get off the floor. Get up and get moving before…_

_Before the walls come crashing down. The building is shaking. The colonel tells him to hide, orders the troopers to protect the entrance. Armitage freezes as the hallway erupts with blaster fire. The colonel collapses with a wound going through his throat. Enemy troopers storm the room as he runs. He finds an open closet, darts inside and crouches down in the darkness, holding back a sob…_

_Someone drags him out by the legs. He tries to hit his assailant’s hand away, but the man holds his arms back. The man says he’s tired of Armitage’s misbehavior, threatening to tell his father if the boy doesn’t get up right now and…_

Armitage is jolted out of his nightmare by the undulating shriek of an alarm. He swings himself out of bed and hurries to the front viewport. Poe is strapped into the pilot’s seat, one hand gripping the controls to steer, the other poised over a set of triggers.

“What’s going on?” Armitage gasps.

“Get to the rear controls, now,” Poe orders. The urgency of his voice preempts any protests. “And buckle up unless you like being thrown around.”

Armitage dashes to his place and barely has a chance to sit down before the blast skims the shuttle, deflected by the shields. The ship careens to the side, flinging him off of his seat. He climbs back to his post and quickly fastens the safety restraint.

“What’s going on?” he demands to know.

“We’ve got company.”


	8. Finesse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who have left comments and kudos. I hope this next chapter is a good read.

Poe switches the toggle to lightspeed. The shuttle jerks forward but fails to make the jump. The previous blast must have damaged the hyperdrive. He curses himself for being too slow to evade it, though that may have been impossible to begin with.

He’s flown light fighters before, TIE series models with a sleek radius of turn and thrust engines too small to be damaged by a single proton torpedo. This ship is different. The post-manufactural accessories tacked onto the ship for the mission cannot undo its inherent unwieldiness. It was designed for cargo and though relatively smaller than the other shuttle designs, it’s still much clumsier than any TIE Fighter, slower than the X-Wings in close pursuit.

Another blast ricochets off the deflector shields, sending a tremor through the ship. He can see the attacking X-Wing in the targeting computer swerve within range of his cannons. Yet, he hesitates.

_They’re doing this for a reason,_ he insists.

The Resistance has the details of his mission down to the shuttle identification code. It wouldn’t make sense for them to attack, not before he reached the lab on Eadu. What good would shooting down a single shuttle do? Intimidate the First Order? Unlikely, saying how the organization values martyrs more than living men.

Perhaps they’re after the fuel shipments. The Resistance has been running low on supplies, having lost the support of several secret allies in the Senate due to political controversy. But that doesn’t make sense either. They wouldn’t be firing so recklessly at the shuttle if they were interested in the cargo. Furthermore, they wouldn’t send three puny X-Wings to capture the shipment; they would have sent a cruiser, or at least something with a tractor beam…

The sensors screech as another proton torpedo hurtles towards the shuttle. Instinct kicks in, and Poe dodges the shot. The ship lurches forward over an invisible drop that lasts longer than intended.  The attacking vessels follow his path, forming a tight V on the monitor, an unmistakable offensive formation.

He remembers his father, his mentors in the Senate and the Resistance warning him that one day, he would meet his allies in battle and be forced to see them as enemies, that he would have to act according to his role. Sacrifice had led the Rebellion to victory, and so it would for the Resistance, even if it meant shooting down their own.

For those who went undercover, the facts were best kept simple. Mercy to friends would cast doubt among their true enemies. Killing an ally for the sake of a mission was a contained tragedy. Exposing the cause would bring an uncontrollable cascade. The former was the only safe option. It was what the galaxy had come to.

Poe knows there is no choice. He’s made the decision countless times before during his posts on larger cruisers, but this is different, more intimate. A little closer, and he’ll be able to see the face of the pilot. He prays it won’t come to that.

“What are you doing up there?” Armitage screams from the back of the ship.

“Trying to keep us from getting blasted,” Poe yells back. “Were you expecting something else, Tage?”

“A jump to hyperspeed? We could lose –”`

“The hyperdrive’s busted. You think I didn’t think of that?”

“Well, if we can’t to outrun them, why aren’t you blasting them?”

Poe doesn’t answer. His stomach flutters as the shuttle gyrates, narrowly avoiding a collision with one of the X-Wings. He knows he’s only buying them time. He wonders how much more the shields can take…

“What the hell are you doing?!” Armitage shrieks. “I thought you knew how to fly!”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Poe snaps. “I’m doing my job. You keep to your controls.”

_Which you don’t know how to use_ , he wants to add. Armitage also has yet to fire a single shot at the enemy, for a very different set of reasons.

Another blast skims the shields. The lights flicker as the shuttle quakes from the blow. They’ve been lucky thus far, but Poe senses their fortune is running thin. He’s no expert on deflector shields, but he knows they aren’t impenetrable. A single shot within the right range at the right angle, and they’re finished.

Armitage is speaking into the intercom. His words are muffled by the discord of alarms and alerts blaring from the main controls.

“What are you doing?” Poe hollers at him. _Now isn’t the time for a phone call, soldier…_

Armitage finishes his transmission and shouts back at the pilot, “Sending a distress signal! What does it look like I’m doing?!”

_Like that’ll do anything._ The thought of the First Order intervening is almost comical. Any regime that sends ten-year-old recruits to the front lines isn’t likely to send a rescue mission on behalf of a single shuttle. Cargo is easily replaceable.

The X-Wings show no sign of relenting. They’re closing in now. One nosedives from overhead, like a hawk swooping down on ungainly prey.

_This is a mistake_. _They’ve made a mistake._ Poe doesn’t have time to think how it happened. Explanations are insignificant now. All that matters is his reaction.

“Hang on,” he says to himself as to Armitage.

One hand turns the flight controls, flipping the shuttle upside down, the other clamps down on the toggle for the ventral cannon. The assaulting X-Wing attempts an unsuccessful escape. Poe turns the shuttle upright, narrowly circumventing the wreckage.

He can hear the cargo banging against the walls of the hold. The restraints on the crates must have been dislodged. He hopes that coaxium anthracite is stable enough to withstand the collisions. He doesn’t have time to worry.

“Okay, there’s another one coming up behind,” Poe shouts. “You’ll have a better view of it on your monitor.”

“I see it,” Armitage says. He fires the cannon, but the shot errs to the right, missing the target. Unfaced by the failed attack, the X-Wing unleashes a full onslaught.

The cabin goes black. When the lights return, the white glow has been replaced by the deep red of the emergency power system. The alert monitor is flashing. Poe feels his heart drop as he reads the warning. He tries to compose himself, searching for a new plan. Years as a fighter pilot have trained him to think fast, and in times like these, he’s nothing if not resourceful.

“What just happened?” Armitage demands.

“We’ve lost our shields,” Poe states the fact without distress or complaints. He’s already occupied with the controls for their next course of action. He continues along their wayward course, swerving through lines of fire, fighting back when he can.

“That’s impossible.”

Armitage’s response surprises him. The soldier may know nothing about piloting, but he seemed to be familiar with the defensive technology back at the base. Surely, he’d be aware that the shields were bound to give in. Poe decides not to question it.

“If you see one of them come into range, fire,” he orders. “But it’ll be hard to get a good shot in without the shields. One more hit to this thing will blow us all to hell.”

“No, no… that’s impossible,” Armitage repeats, more vehemently than before. “Those were R1-class Microray Shields. The Rebels don’t have the technology to penetrate –”

His voice dissolves into a reflexive cry as the shuttle dips forward again, sharper and faster than before.

“If we can’t hit them, we can at least keep them from hitting us,” Poe says, once again ignoring the comment on the shields.

“What… how do you expect to do that?!” Armitage cries out in shock as the ship makes another nauseating plummet. “Dameron, this is a glamorized cargo shuttle. The hyperdrive is down. You can’t outmaneuver them.”

“We don’t know that until I try.”

“You… you’re insane!”

“Glad to hear it.”

Poe tightens his grip on the controls. Each abrupt movement strikes like a whiplash, rattling the cabin. One moment they’re careening between crossfire. The next, they’re spiraling downward. It’s an elegant spectacle, a dexterous endeavor, but a dead-end, nonetheless. It’s all a fiery form of stalling, buying time for an impossible solution…

“We need the shields!” Armitage screams.

“I’ve noticed,” Poe manages to shout back.

“Can you… can you get ahead of them? Long enough to stabilize the ship?”

“You want me to…” A narrow encounter with a proton torpedo interjects. “You want me to what?!”

“Get… get us moving straight forward, just long enough for me to run the gravity stabilizers and get below the cabin. The astromech controls are down there.”

Poe isn’t sure whether to be astonished or annoyed. He may not have a specific plan, but experimental tinkering with the astromech controls at this point seems like lunacy.

“What the hell is that supposed to do?” he demands.

“If I can get down there.” The levelness in Armitage’s voice is stunning. “I can repair the shields, but I need the gravity stabilizer on to move anywhere, and that won’t work unless the ship is upright, moving straight forward. Once I’m secured down there, turn the stabilizers off. They’ll burn fuel too quickly otherwise. I’ll be strapped in by then…”

“Sounds great. That’ll give them just enough time to blow us to bits.”

“And that’s exactly what they’ll do without the shields!”

A blast grazes the right wing of the shuttle as if to prove the point. The ship seesaws to the left in a stomach-lurching twist.

“I need to get below the cabin!” Armitage insists. “With the shields, we’ll at least have more time for the distress signal to go through.”

_The distress signal._ Armitage seems to have fallen into a state of optimistic lunacy under duress. Perhaps the soldier actually believes the First Order’s myth of protection. The commandants always preached of protection, against the anarchy of the Rebels, the poverty of the Old Republic, the avarice of the crime syndicates. The youth recruits were versed in gratitude for their adoption by the Order, a generous guardian who offered them greater security than their own parents.

Poe always recognized the claims for the lies they were, but the fantasy ensnared many believers. He thinks of the cadets now, captivated by the delusions. He thinks of Armitage, of what it must be like for a man to realize he’s played the fool all his life for a myth that has left him to die. He pities the soldier.

“Poe!” Armitage shouts. “Are you listening to me?!”

“I am! I…” Another assault passes within an inch of the cockpit. Poe tightens his death grip on the console until his knuckles bulge white against his skin. “Look. What makes you think you can fix the kriffing shields? You said so yourself… microray… some complex…”

“They’re R1-Microray Shields and I designed them.”

“You… what?!”

“I need the ship moving straight forward,” Armitage barks out his orders, ignoring the question. “Upright with the gravity stabilizer on. _Now_.”

_This is insane. Kriffing insane._

But sometimes insanity is the only way to go.

Poe drains half of the remaining hyperfuel in a single forward burst. It isn’t anywhere close to lightspeed, but it’s enough to get them ahead of their enemies. He toggles the gravity stabilizers on and winces as the fuel stores drop even lower.

“You’ve got thirty seconds to get down there,” he shouts. Armitage is already halfway there.

 

Below the cockpit, Armitage scrambles to secure his safety restraints. He clicks the last piece into place seconds before the shuttle begins the swerve again, throwing him backwards.

He sets an iron gaze on the astromech controls, silencing the throbbing bruises. A set of technical equipment is hooked to the wall for emergency use. It’s a meager assortment, far from the extensive resources he’s accustomed to in the lab. He longs for an astromech droid. He remembers requesting one shortly after receiving his assignment, only to have the request denied by the lieutenant without explanation.

But there isn’t time to ruminate on hypotheticals. Without hesitation, he selects his repertoire of equipment and dives into the intricate wiring. His mind speeds through the maze of binary inquiries, a logical analysis of each alternative solution.

In that moment, danger is secondary to the task. The dance with death and sickening motions fade as the engineer lets his procedure consume him. His heart races in fearful anticipation as he reaches the final step. He locates his target, a single resistor, removes it with spotless precision and holds his breath.

The emergency lights dim. The alarm denoting the damaged shield goes silent. Armitage holds his relief at bay, skeptical as always, and waits. A flicker of pride rises in his chest at the prospect of success.

But the shadow of victory is ephemeral. The alarm resumes as the shields vanish once more.

_This is all wrong._

He cudgels his brain for an error in his logic. He attempts a battery of alternative strategies, drawing on every morsel of technical knowledge he can recall. Each is just as futile as the last.

“You had it just now!” Poe calls from above. “What happened?”

Armitage can’t bring himself to pronounce his failure. He hopes against hope for a revelation, a minute detail that could solve the puzzle, but nothing comes. The eagerness that gripped him moments ago is gone. He feels numb. Even worse, he feels lost.

He awaits the fatal shot. The concept is far from novel. He’s seen a thousand ships go down in flames. As a small child with little potential beyond menial duties, he was assigned to help clear the battlefield. Memories from over a decade ago remain as vivid as the present, the odor of singed flesh, the charred corpses of the pilots dangling from the wreckage.

_“Cargo shuttle number 136, come in.”_

The incoming transmission resounds through the cockpit. At first, Armitage thinks he’s imagined it. A second transmission casts away his doubts.

“ _Shuttle number 136, this is central control from the Praetorian Cruiser responding to your distress call. Repeat. This is central control from the Praetorian Cruiser responding to your distress call. Shuttle number 136, come in.”_

“This…” The pilot hesitates. It seems Poe is equally shocked by their fortune. “This is 136. I have two hostile fighters on our trail. Our shields and hyperdrive are down. I repeat. We have two hostile fighters on our trail. Our shields and hyperdrive are down.”

Armitage holds his breath. The transmission buzzes to life with a familiar voice:

“ _136, we have your coordinates. Support is en route. Repeat. We have your coordinates. Support is en route. Over_.”

A foreboding rumble shakes the shuttle, jostling Armitage against his safety restraints with such force that the straps leave deep marks against his skin. He worries that it is still all in vain, that aid shall come too late.

The shuttle continues its acrobatics, sparing them from their demise a second longer with each nimble evasion. Armitage wonders how long they’ve survived the assault. Indeed, Poe does have talent, maybe even enough to justify a fraction of his ego. It would be a shame to lose him in such a petty skirmish.

“Oh stars!” Poe swears.

Armitage lets out an involuntary yelp as he’s tossed into the wall of the hull like a ragdoll. He braces himself for another turbulent turn, but the shock doesn’t come. Instead, the shuttle slows to cruising velocity, melting onto a steady path. The sirens die down.

“You okay down there?” Poe’s voice seems to echo in the fresh silence.

“Splendid,” Armitage yells back.

“You can come up now. The ship’s steady. In fact, we’re almost out of fuel. We used up just about the last of it just now. The hostiles are… are gone. They shot down the last one. Well, I shot down one, but…”

“Who’s ‘they’?” Armitage asks, though he already knows the answer. He unfastens his restraints and clambers out of the hull.

“Them,” Poe says, pointing outside the viewport.

A slender cruiser greets them. The ship is smaller than a Star Destroyer but equally imposing. It’s needle-like nose faces them as the cruiser pulls the shuttle in by tractor beam.

“Looks like your distress call paid off,” says Poe.

“Indeed.”

Armitage watches the cruiser draw closer. His failure to restore the shields still weighs heavily on his thoughts. He’ll have to address it soon; he’s determined to do so. For now, however, he allows himself a sliver of relief.


	9. Euphemisms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and thank you to everyone who's been following this story. I appreciate the comments and kudos.
> 
> This next chapter is a bit of a prelude for bigger things to come. I promise that there will be more Poe and Hux interaction in future chapters, but there's some setup that needs to be done first. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this.

The hangar of the Praetorian cruiser is unlike any Poe has ever seen. It is unmistakably property of the First Order, the silver-plated emblem on the back wall make that evident enough. However, there is a decadent air about the ambiance that stands in stark contrast with the staidness of most bases. The sterile straight lines and sharp angles have been replaced by shimmering, arched beams. As the shuttle moves farther inside the cruiser, gliding idly along the pull of the tractor beam, Poe glimpses intricate markings on the beams, letters in Aurebesh that he can’t read from the viewport.

“You’ve been here before?” he asks Armitage.

The soldier has returned to the copilot’s seat, staring down at his boots.

“A few times,” he says.

The shuttle comes to a stop in the center of the hangar where a pair of troopers and another man await them. After receiving the command over transmissions, Poe lowers the boarding ramp. The entrance to the shuttle opens with a hiss, and both the pilot and the soldier stand at attention as the crew enters.

The Stormtroopers remain at the bottom of the ramp, facing away from the shuttle as if to keep guard. The third man shuffles up the ramp, a slight, short figure with jagged features that obscure his age. In place of the usual hangar crew uniform, he wears a long, grey coat which could pass as civilian’s clothes if not for the insignia. After lowering his salute – a slow, relaxed gesture that appears sloppy in comparison to that of the soldiers – he turns to Armitage:

“Well, Hux. What a coincidence this is.”

“K’sera,” Armitage greets the man. Poe recognizes the lack of deference in his voice as a sign of equal rank. “I need to speak with you concerning the shuttle’s defenses. The shields…”

“The shields can wait,” K’sera replies. His lips curl into something between a smile and a sneer. “You’re always in such a hurry to get to back to work. Really, after what you’ve been through today, I thought you’d want to relax a little.”

He looks at the pilot now. There is an unusual gleam in his eyes, one that Poe can neither characterize nor ignore.

“My apologies,” the man says, extending a cold hand which Poe takes in a firm handshake. “How rude of me not to introduce myself. Devien K’sera, Coding Specialist on board the _Praetorian_.”

“Poe Dameron,” the pilot introduces himself. “Enth 06 Squadron.”

“A fighter pilot,” K’sera says, his tone rising as if the concept intrigued him. “So, I’ve heard. You’ll find good company here then. Well, come down then. You’ve been on this ship long enough and the tech crew needs you out for the repairs.”

“What about the cargo?” Poe asks. “Shouldn’t we get it down to stabilize the fuel?”

“Last I checked you were transporting coaxium anthracite.” K’sera waves his dismissively hand towards the hull. “It’s stable there on its own until we reach Eadu.”

Poe resists the urge to question his nonchalance. There’s something off about this entire arrangement. So far as the pilot knows, it isn’t standard protocol to send Coding Specialists to inspect cargo shuttles or usher their crew members. Taming his suspicions, Poe descends the ramp, letting his fingers stroke once over his blaster as if to assure it’s still there.

Armitage stays put, standing by the main console with his arms crossed.

“I’ll wait for the rest of the technicians,” the soldier says. “I need to explain several things about the shields.”

“That can wait,” K’sera says again. “Listen, Armitage. I know that this is important to you for…” He hesitates. “For many reasons, but you’ll have all the time you want to look at it in depth once we reach Eadu. You’ll have better equipment too.”

“I can start now,” Armitage insists. “Preliminary inspection.”

“Later, later,” says K’sera, exasperation growing in his voice. “Come on now. They want to see both of you in the med bay. Just a standard check in light of the attack.”

_A standard check._ Poe has been in his fair share of interstellar assaults, none of which were ever followed by a medical inspection.

“I’m fine,” Armitage says. The bruise on his forehead argues otherwise. “Fine enough, at any rate.”

“I don’t doubt it, but I don’t make the rules,” K’sera replies. “Besides, the director wants you in good shape all around. You know, ‘strength in mind, body and spirit’, isn’t that what the posters say? You should know. You’re a soldier. Oh, never mind. Just hurry up.”

Armitage scowls but moves to gather his belongings, glowering at the blinking alarm system. His jaw is clenched behind thin lips. When he finally steps down from the ship, his eyes are brimming with such self-censure that Poe can’t help his concern.

“You okay, Tage?” the words slip out before Poe can think better of it.

Armitage stops just long enough to glare at the pilot before pushing past him.

“Could be better,” he grumbles. “You seem oddly chirpy, all things considered.”

“Could be worse,” Poe counters. “I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty contented that we weren’t blown into fifty different bits floating around the galaxy. It’s a good thing we had the shields… your shields.”

The ensuing silence tells him at once that he’s said something wrong. Armitage exchanges a discreet glance with K’sera, too brief for Poe to read.

_“They’re R1-Microray Shields and I designed them.”_

Even now, Poe is tempted to call out the soldier for lying. The idea of such a young serviceman having the knowledge and time amidst his duties for an elaborate engineering project seems nothing short of impossible.

But Armitage isn’t utterly inexperienced either. He came close to restoring the shields amidst the chaotic assault, failing for reasons beyond his abilities. Such skill does not go unnoticed in the First Order. If he has indeed been singled out, his work is bound to be be of great benefit to the Resistance.

The troopers trail behind them, silent except for their heavy footsteps. Poe does his best to ignore the unsettling entourage. Still, he can’t help but feel like a prisoner being marched off to the interrogation wing. He’s lived the past seven years dangling on the precipice of that fate. Perhaps the ubiquitous threat has begun to take its toll on him.

He submerges such worries at once. Now, isn’t the time for paranoia, not when he’s on an unfamiliar ship full of new faces and first impressions. He’s kept up the act under greater pressure before. It would be a terrible waste to break down now, right when he’s just set foot into a potential intrigue.

“You’re lucky we were within range of your distress signal,” K’sera remarks. “I recognized your code as soon as we were notified.”

“ _Very_ lucky,” Armitage says, “Considering our arrangements.”

“Look, I thought the plan was too risky from the start,” K’sera replies. “But the higher ups wanted it. Something about it being safer to spread out the resources for the lab. Still sounds a little drastic, if you ask me, but given what happened in the Yavin System, I suppose they have a point.”

“What happened there?” Poe asks. “We were rerouted from our course to Eadu away from the Yavin System.”

 “We had two star destroyers run into some trouble with the Resistance,” K’sera answers bitterly. “They were replenishing the fuel stores, doing some routine checks when the scum shot in at light speed.” He shakes his head. “How they got enough hyperfuel for an attack that size is the real question. They did some real damage to the _Herald_.”

“The _Herald_ ,” Armitage repeats sharply. “What happened to the _Herald_?”

“It’s damaged but not destroyed,” K’sera says. He hesitates before adding, “Your father is fine. He was transferred to another ship before the attack.”

“Oh,” Armitage says, neither relieved nor concerned. “I suppose that’s why we were redirected.”

“I heard,” K’sera replies. “Would have been over by the time you got there, but I suppose they’re paranoid. Rumor has it they were trying to steal the fuel shipments.”

“That’s absurd,” Armitage says. “They wouldn’t have the nerve to rob a pair of destroyers. It would take more firepower than they could afford with too small a payoff. Stealing fuel shipments. Is that how they’re going to report it? Give me a break.”

“What do you think they were after then?” Poe asks.

Armitage’s answer is venomous:

“Terrorism. The Herald is a training ship, full of cadets, children. They’d see it as the perfect target.”

A long gap of silence passes between them before K’sera speaks.

“Most of the casualties were minors,” he adds quietly.

“The Resistance must be _delighted_ ,” Armitage growls. “It isn’t the first time they’ve done something like this. I don’t see it being the last. I wonder what excuses the Republic will…”

“That’s enough, Armitage,” K’sera cuts in.

“And you suddenly think differently?” Armitage scoffs.

“You know where I stand in terms of politics and I’ll hold to that until and after I’m six feet underground,” K’sera fires back. “But there’s a time, place and company for every conversation.” He glances at the pilot. “And this is not it.”

Poe longs to launch a defense for the Resistance. He wants to decry the claims of terrorism as lunacy, pin Armitage against the wall until the soldier abandons his delusions. His fingers tingle with adrenaline as he unclenches his fist and forces himself to calm down.

“They’ve heightened the security on Yavin,” K’sera says.

“Oh, have they?” Poe says. He must sound too flippant for Armitage’s tastes, for the latter shoots him a look of ice.

“They sent more troops in, just in case the Resistance is planning another attack.” K’sera turns to the pilot and adds, “I thought you might be relieved to hear it.”

“Of course,” Poe says. He can feel his hair stand on edge. “Always good to know they’re keeping everything protected, even the civilian areas.”

“Indeed.”

They continue down the hall until they reach the medical bay. There, K’sera dismisses the troopers, ordering them to report to the lower hangar.

“I’ll leave you here,” he says. “I trust you’ll be taken care of. I’ve got business to attend to. Someone will show you around.”

“Kriff it, K’sera,” Armitage curses. “We just survived a rebel ambush. I think we can survive a few wrong turns in this cruiser.”

“I wasn’t talking to you,” K’sera says, looking to Poe. “Welcome on board the cruiser, pilot. Pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Poe says, mustering all the charm and cordiality he can manage. K’sera smiles back and Poe catches once more the uncanny glint in his eyes.

_Like a lizard_ , he thinks as the “coding specialist” stalks down the hallway, around the corner and out of sight.

 

Armitage leans back, allowing the medical droid to examine the bruise on his forehead. He fidgets despite his best efforts to keep from doing so, lacing and stretching his fingers with short anxious movements. As a young cadet, he was punished more than once for needless gestures, pacing and other aimless motions that the commandant viewed as a waste of energy. His father succeeded in beating numerous unwanted habits out of him. Others only grew stronger.

_“Our ranks must be uniform, ready to move on orders and just as ready to sit still awaiting them. I won’t have my own son squirming like a nervous wreck.”_

_I won’t be fidgeting with a broken hand anyway, if that was your intention, Father. Armitage remembers catching his reflection in the bathroom mirror, the way the blood from his lips outlined his grin just before his father pinned him against the wall and demanded an apology for insolence._

Armitage can’t help but be impatient now. As if the medical examination isn’t tedious enough already, the staff has now decided to screen him for a concussion. He considers his previous visits to medical centers, times when the cuts were so severe that he could barely walk and yet, the doctors in the Order never questioned him. He can’t truly blame the Order for their negligence. Even the doctors have always been controlled, limited…

_Silenced by the New Republic._

He knows such thoughts are transgressive. It isn’t in good form to criticize the Republic. They are allies, or at least, the High Command considers them as such. Armitage knows better, but he also knows that it’s wiser to hold his tongue.

He thinks back to the conversation in the hallway, kicking himself for his carelessness. The label of “terrorists” is too severe to be thrown about lightly. Both the Republic and the High Command have taken pains to avoid it, fearing any allusion to chaos. Why use such extreme language in times of _relative stability_? The Rebels scum, the dissidents, the Resistance or whatever the enemy is supposed to be called are under control. The First Order needs composed leaders, people who can cajole the Republic for resources and keep the spirit of the Imperial Senate alive, not mad men who incite panic.

He remembers the look the pilot gave him when he spoke of terrorists, the thinly veiled contempt which would have been warning enough to silence him even if K’sera hadn’t done so. Surely, Poe does not condone the Resistance’s crimes, but perhaps he’s of a more conservative strain, one of many members of the Order who advocate the Republic’s ambiguity over action. Armitage can only hope he won’t be reported for poor behavior.

He clutches his forehead, warding off an impending migraine. Images of the training wings in the _Herald_ rush through his mind, incoherent fragments of memories more factual than episodic. He recalls attending lectures on evacuation plans and frequent bombing drills during his years as a cadet on board the star destroyer. The drills, though he followed them without question, never established any sense of safety. It was as if every ship and base he entered was, despite all the defensive armaments, made of glass, ready to crack and spill forth one grim end or another. In the absence of a full-blown explosion, damages could lead to slower deaths. He’d heard stories of how an impact to the main generators could isolate entire wings that had been set ablaze, aborting the filtration system and transforming the unlucky barracks into sealed compartments of deadly smog.

He can see the attack now, the smoke billowing into the training floors, the piercing sirens which serve as shrill death knells. He envisions himself, years younger, huddled with the other cadets in a shelter as he’d so often done when the bombs began to fall on Arkanis… only this time, he doesn’t walk out alive. This time, the shelter gives way, and he burns along with the children on the _Herald_.

It isn’t the first time he’s pictured this fate. Even now, he cannot conceive how he eluded it on Arkanis or the countless times after that. There are moments when he thinks there’s a reason for his fortune,retribution on behalf of the Order or some other grandiose goal. Other times, it seems like nothing but stupid luck.

The medical droid has finished its assessment. _Minor bruising. No signs of a concussion or other long-term injury._

“In other words, a waste of time,” Armitage mutters, as the droid hovers away to process its report.

Another electronic chirp sounds in the room. It takes a moment for Armitage to trace the sound to his data pad. The message requires an extra fingerprint scan and several layers of security codes to access:

_Hux:_

_Report to the central command bridge after medical inspection._

_The Director needs to discuss the pilot._

_The matter is urgent as always._

_\- D. K’sera_

Armitage is on his feet in an instant.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Constructive feedback is appreciated! I will do my best to keep this updated regularly.


End file.
